The Witching Hour
by Ebolafan
Summary: One week in the lives of Hermione Granger and Severus Snape that changes everything.
1. Sunday, Bloody Sunday

_And the battle's just begun_

_There's many lost, but tell me who has won_

_The trench is dug within our hearts_

_And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart_

_~Sunday, Bloody Sunday, U2_

"_Accio_ styli hederacium."

A handful of green-tinted drawing pencils rose gently from the open cigar box on the night stand and floated gracefully to the young woman seated cross-legged on the plush carpet.

Taking the pencils in one hand, she rubbed at the sudden pain in her temple and sighed. The twinge was a small price to pay for not having to interrupt the scene evolving in front of her in the sketchbook. Wandless magic did not come easily to Hermione Granger, but she could usually accomplish one or two small tasks before her head would ache from the strain. The mossy hillocks on her page took on vibrant hues of veridian and emerald as she used the additional pencils to add shadows and bring the Scottish moor to life.

_Slam!_

Ignoring the noise, she continued to flesh out the picture, adding delicate heather and running the pad of her little finger over it to smudge the purple into the green background. It looked as if the field of flowers was rippling in the wind off the loch.

_Slam! Slam!_

"Do something about that!" her father yelled from the living room, already exasperated by the noise.

She could hear her mother's angry retort as Jeannie's door slammed, hard, making an ugly sound as it hit the wooden doorframe again and again.

By the tenth slam, Mum had apparently had enough, and Hermione could hear the loud vocalisations begin as Jeannie was physically dragged away from the door.

Her sister's wordless grunting grew louder as Jean Granger ran toward Hermione's room, bare feet pounding against the hallway's floorboards.

Knowing that the child-proof door latch would ensure her privacy, Hermione remained on the carpet, adding birds wheeling through the silvery spray from the waves along the loch's shore. Her door rattled as Jeannie tried to force her way into the room.

The click of the latch tongue lifting from the brass bar on both sides of the door broke the spell and Hermione looked up from the sketch in alarm as her door swung open. Jeannie raced in with all the destructive force of a North Sea gale. _Crash!_ went a perfume bottle as it was swept off the dresser and onto the window seat. The scent of rose essence filled the room, as Jeannie sent the cigar box of coloured pencils to the floor in her rampage.

"Damn it!" Hermione swore, springing to her feet.

"Jeannie Perdita!" her mother called from the doorway. The high-pitched squeals ceased immediately, but not the phrensied need to knock objects onto the floor. Ignoring her mother's presence, Hermione quickly cornered her sister and restrained her, holding her down on the daybed while blinking back tears at the damage. The glass shards of the antique atomiser from Auntie Mary could be carefully swept into a box for repair when she returned to Hogwarts in the morning, but the torn sketch embossed with Jeannie's dirty footprint would be a total loss.

"Why did you let her in here?" Hermione fairly spat at her mother. "Look what she's done!"

"She needs to be calmed down," her mother snapped, refusing to acknowledge the shambles left in her younger child's wake. "You're going away tomorrow. The least you could do is to give your father and me a break for one night."

Hermione winced as Jeannie's thumbnail sliced the back of her hand; she readjusted her grip as Jeannie tried to break her big sister's hold. Hermione breathed in deeply through her nose, exaggerating the motion, and exhaled through her mouth, until Jeannie began to ape the relaxation technique.

"Alicia was kind enough to stop by Purnima and bring back curry for the two of you," her mother continued, still managing to sound cross, although _she_ had been the one to open the door. "Just stick around tonight, please. Your father and I really need to talk with you about your future, young lady." Her mother stood in the doorway, fastening a pearl ear stud in place to match the treble-stranded necklace.

"Where's Alicia?" Hermione questioned, breaking away from the breathing exercise.

"I've given her the evening off. Your father and I will be back in a couple of hours and we want to talk with you about things before you go rushing off again willy nilly."

"You mean after I've cleaned up this mess, quieted her down and kept her out of your hair for the evening while her caretaker has a night out?" Hermione could not help the pettish tone that crept into her voice. Truly, she knew it was not Jeannie's fault, but there were times when she wished she could stay away at school year 'round.

"A ministering angel shall my sister be," her mother shot back, mockingly.

Hermione glowered. '_Always quick with the Shakespeare quote, but short on context, as usual. _' She quickly banished that uncharitable thought, as she noticed the dark circles under her mother's eyes, and the tight, pinched expression around her lips. Even with the local council finding a caregiver for Jeannie, it was still an ordeal living with her day by day. A flash of guilt made Hermione drop the snarkiness. "I thought we'd talked about this, mum. I know you and dad want me to pursue a degree at University, ('_yeah, a double first, at that_,' she acknowledged silently), but more things are involved than finishing up coursework. I thought you both understood," Hermione finished quietly, still wrestling with her sister's thrashing.

"Is it that boy, Harry Potter? Is he the reason why you won't consider furthering your education in the _traditional_ world?" her mother asked sharply, her compromise between calling it magical versus _normal_.

A vision of Harry Potter proposing to her on bended knee caused her to smirk. Her mother could not be further off base.

"No, Mum. It's not because of Harry—or any other boy—" she added quickly. "And Harry and I are friends, nothing like that. Really," she added as her mother left the doorway, heading into the living room.

Jeannie had fallen asleep on the daybed—really the only time her hands were stilled was in sleep. Sighing, Hermione smoothed the fringe out of her sister's face, Jeannie's hair forming a soft golden halo spilling over the duvet.

'_I know what they want me to do, but it won't work. By this time, even with the special tutors over the holidays to sneer at how little I've managed to prep for the GCSE, I'm still so far behind in the "traditional" world. Plus it comes down to this: where do I fit in? Dumbledore is right, the war is coming. Sooner or later it will swallow up everyone, no matter where they are. In which place can I make a difference? Mum and Dad will have to understand, I'll have to make them understand._'

A few minutes later, the front door closed behind her parents, and Hermione began to clean up, still lost in thought.

Filtering out the quiet snores, Hermione stretched out on the bed alongside Jeannie. '_She probably won't even care that I'm gone again_,' she thought ruefully.

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

Shadows had begun to gather by the time her parents returned, and a soft knock at the door woke her.

"There's someone here to see you," her mother said in a strained voice, leaning in from the hallway.

Getting up carefully so as not to jostle her sleeping sister, Hermione stood and straightened her clothing. '_Could Ron or the twins have come to collect me? I thought they were bringing Crooks to the train station for me in the morning._' Her mother remained behind, straightening the duvet and waking Jeannie.

A woman stood expectantly in the living room. At first glance she seemed a testament to a bygone era, her floor-length grey skirt brushing the carpet as elegantly as any set of wizarding robes. An older lady, her dark hair confined in a single plait, silver strands twisted throughout, and simple sensible shoes which completed the picture of a woman who should have been forgettable, except for her eyes; they fairly radiated a sense of power and singularity of purpose.

Hermione was taken aback by the brilliant smile and lightning-quick lunge toward her as the woman seized her hands. Hermione flinched, unaccustomed to such frontal assaults. Still gripping the girl's hands firmly, the woman studied Hermione's face intently, her piercing blue eyes reminiscent of Albus Dumbledore's. It took every bit of manners instilled in her not to pull away roughly.

The woman noticed and chuckled softly. "Oh, child. I mean no harm." She released her grip and motioned Hermione to the dark green velvet settee. "How long have you been in a world of confusion," she asked with sincerity, "where even a friendly touch causes distress?"

"Not distress, I'm just not used to being grabbed by strangers. Do I know you?"

The woman seated herself next to Hermione, but did not touch her again. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Hermione Jane. You're the very image of your mum, you know that, right?" She smiled gently, her eyes never leaving Hermione's.

Hermione winced mentally at the inclusion of her middle name. It always reminded her of some Brontean heroine running across the moor and acting a helpless prat. The part about resembling her mother was unexpected. Except for the soft hazel shade of her eyes, she took after her dad. Hermione felt a new empathy for Harry, and all the familial look remarks he endured. '_People will always see what they wish to_,' she thought in resignation. '_Whether it is really there or not._'

"Your parents have told me so much about you and Jean Perdita."

That last statement was accompanied by a familiar look of pity crossing the woman's features as she spoke of Jeannie. Hermione should be used to it by now, but it still rankled. They didn't need anyone's pity.

"Excuse me, but how do you know my parents?"

"We attend the same church now, the Church of the Covenant. You may call me Sarah, by the way."

"Dad goes to church?" she blurted out, before realising how that sounded. Her father loathed the idea of organised religion, something about being able to think for himself–thank you kindly.

Sarah laughed. "He does his best, what he thinks is right for his family, Hermione Jane. Can _you_ also say that?"

'_Ah, yes. Now the claws have made an appearance. I so do not need this today_,' she thought. Taking a steadying deep breath, Hermione asked with mock sweetness, "And just what is _best_ for _my_ family?"

Ignoring her borderline rude tone, the woman replied, "Your parents are very concerned about the future, what with you and Jean Perdita still being under-age."

'_Jeannie has no future_,' Hermione automatically thought, and then was immediately ashamed of her knee-jerk reaction.

"So many things can strain even the most committed parents' marriage," Sarah confided, leaning closer. "Your mum and dad came to me because having children who are 'different' can be such a burden on even the closest family. Do you know why you don't have any other brothers or sisters?" she added, her posture becoming tense, her eyes boring into Hermione's with the belief that what she was imparting was the absolute truth. "They were afraid that additional children might also be abnormal." Sarah's voice had dropped to a near whisper, as if horrified by the thought.

"My sister is profoundly autistic, not abnormal!" Hermione angrily retorted, glaring at Sarah.

"I'm speaking about _you_, Hermione Jane."

Hermione's breath fled, as she sat utterly gobsmacked by this woman's audacity. '_Is she calling me abnormal?_'

"They're finally realising that you've no more in common than your blood type. Your mum and dad feel they've produced no future in either of you. There will be no university, career, marriage... they can feel you slipping away from reality, losing important cultural references. I'm here to tell you that there is a way out."

"You have no idea what you are talking about," she finally managed.

"Don't I? I've been where you are. From the time I was very young, I felt lost, confused, _different_, and I thought that if I stopped being 'special', I would completely lose my identity." Sarah paused, making a visible effort to control her ragged breathing. Her hands were tightly clenched, as though she needed to remind herself not to seize hold of Hermione again.

"Like you, I was raised in ignorance of the truth. God gave us supernatural gifts to help us fight spiritual battles that occur every day in our lives. I was not aware that these gifts were from God, you see, and unknowingly developed them through Satan's methods. I was only a child when they sent their demons to collect me."

A cold shiver raced down Hermione's spine at the woman's words. What she had taken for an aura of power was now revealed as madness.

"Just like you, my feelings toward the normal world started to change because of those who tried to impose their reality and ultimately failed. You can be saved, as your mother and sister have been, as your father will be." She thrust a pamphlet into Hermione's hands. Protecting Your Teen from Todays Witchcraft: A Parents' Guide to Confronting Evil.

"What do you think?" For the first time Sarah sounded nervous.

The booklet's cover was creased, she could imagine her mum worrying the thin paper over and over in her hands, agonising over the words in the title.

"There's an apostrophe missing from 'Today's'," she said automatically, still thinking about whether or not to look inside the thin book. She knew all about the real thing, why humour this madwoman? Sarah's gaze bore into her. Sighing, Hermione lifted the thin book, which fell open to a section near the end.

_the secure girls' campus. We also have transport services available to pick up your child from home if she is unwilling to go on her own._

_Q: How long is the programme?_

_A: To get the best results, the programme length is generally 9-12 months. That is usually determined by her attitude and how she is progressing in the desire to become a functioning, responsible member of God's family and society._

"What the hell is _this?_" Hermione stood, allowing the offending booklet to fall to the floor.

"Your parents only want what's best for you–it's for your own good!" Sarah babbled, making a desperate grab for Hermione's arm.

"You're crazy. This is _not_ going to happen!"

"Sit down," her father said sternly. She hadn't even heard her parents enter the room, yet they were standing just inside the doorway.

"Why are you doing this?" she implored. Her mother looked away, unable to meet her daughter's accusing eyes.

"You can't possibly believe all this?" she gestured to the booklet.

"No," he answered, drawing a look of disapproval from his wife and a frown from the woman.

"But I don't want you to throw your life away on something that may not be real."

"You've been there, you've _seen_..." Hermione pleaded, even now mindful of the Statute of Secrecy, unable to say what she really wanted to in the presence of this woman.

"But I don't understand what I've seen, and until I can make some sense of it, you will listen and do as you are told, at least for a little longer. Their academics are top notch, and you can use the time to fill in the holes in your education and work toward your A levels."

"It won't do any harm to at least try the programme," her mother finally spoke up. "Think of it as going away to camp," she added unhelpfully. Her mother's insistence on "looking on the bright side" of every uncomfortable situation was never so irritating as it was now.

"Camp?" Hermione couldn't believe any of this was happening. "A nice camp that has thugs for hire in case I don't want to go? Do they also make the trains run on time?"

Tears of anger filled her eyes. It was Hermione's turn to pound down the hallway to her room, slamming the door without having touched it, not caring about the sudden jolt of agony in her head.

Blinking back tears that had nothing to do with the pain, she grabbed the large valise from her closet and on top of the already packed uniforms, she threw in a pair of jeans, socks, underwear, and the blouses on her dresser left by the laundress. Her schoolbooks and set of robes were gone, but her wand was in its hiding place under her pyjamas in the dresser–she was grateful for the need to hide it from Jeannie–no doubt it would have joined her books in the confiscation. Behind her, the door opened.

"Hermione, wait. We think it best that you agree to check yourself into this programme, and then in a few months we can reassess things." Her father's voice sounded unnaturally calm. She didn't have to look over her shoulder to know that her mother was hovering behind him in the hallway, always willing to have him play the disciplinarian.

"I-I can't. I'm sorry, Dad. I need to go now." Hot tears flowed, wetting her cheeks and making the vision of her parents blur.

"Hermione, if you go, you can't come back."

Hermione's hand froze, poised to zip the valise closed.

"You can't mean that, Mum."

"I do. I can't jeopardise my family, the rest of our lives over these ungodly manipulations from those people."

"I thought I was family, too," Hermione said quietly, picking up the valise, and turning to face her parents.

"I'm going now. I hope you can see your way to understand why I can't accept your terms."

"Where do you think you're going?" her mother was standing in the way now. Hermione could hear the hurt mixed with anger at her daughter's defiance of their wishes. "You won't be able to stay at that 'school.' Once they hear from the solicitor and realise there'll be no more tuition coming, you'll be brought back straight away! You're not of legal age yet, young lady."

"I'll find a way to pay—it's important, Mum, Dad. There are things happening that make what you want from me pale in comparison to what I need to do. Besides," she added through clenched teeth, "you wouldn't even know how to file a legal claim in the w— that place," she added hastily, seeing Sarah squeeze in behind her parents in the hallway.

"An owl to the Ministry, God's curse be upon them!" Sarah hissed in distaste. At Hermione's look of shock, Sarah continued. "Oh, yes, I know all about _them_. You're not the first innocent soul redeemed from that blasphemous world by the church." Elbowing aside Mr Granger, Sarah advanced into the room.

"The truth is that witchcraft is real. I am here to testify that any power other than God is forbidden, starting with the First Commandment, and attempting to do "magick" exposes one to contact with demonic power, whether or not those people name it as such." Her voice became louder, echoing down the hallway as Hermione shouldered past the adult blockade and made for the front door. "You know of what I speak, child, but there is a _power_ that forbids—" Sarah stopped abruptly, her voice gurgling as though an unseen hand had clamped itself to her throat.

Physically backing away from Hermione, Sarah held up her hands in acknowledgement that discussing certain information was against the Statute of Secrecy. Taking a full breath, she began again. "Normal people do have access to divine power, but it is through prayer to God and Him alone, not other named or imagined spirits. And, God's will determines the final outcome; rituals or other works of Satan's deceivers do not, Hermione Jane!" she shrieked, running after the retreating girl. "Renounce their evil ways, as I have done, child. Break and burn your wand, praying for God's forgiveness—it is your only hope!"

Hermione felt the death grip on her arm as Sarah's fingernails scrabbled against the thick fabric of her blouse. "Stop it, you nutter!"

Shaking free, Hermione managed to open the front door, while using her valise as a shield between herself and the distraught woman.

"You'll burn, Hermione Jane! If you go back there, you'll burn in everlasting hellfire! Please, don't let them suck out your soul—I've seen it; I've seen them call the Dark Ones with no faces to give Satan's Kiss... please, please don't go!"

Running, Hermione pressed the button to summon the lift and almost cried in relief when the doors parted right away. In moments she was in the lobby and heading out to the street, everything she owned contained in one bag.

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

Not a breath of air moved in the sullen early twilight. No birdcalls heralded the coming storm as the light faded, casting a bruised and ominous visage over the countryside.

Nymphadora Tonks, Auror Third Class, stood silently in a coppice, hidden by moss-laden branches. Her vantage point just outside the anti-Apparition wards provided a clear view of a dilapidated valley farmhouse whose whitewashed exterior had seen too many seasons. Low masonry walls extended in all directions from an adjacent barn, delineating the dominion of sharp-boned cows and rocky fields. A flash of movement caught her eye as a lone figure mounted on a broom was silhouetted briefly against the darkening sky—a very late arrival to the monthly meeting.

An echoing _crack_, muffled by distance, drew her attention to a rutted dirt road that carved through the forest to slope gently into the valley farmlands. _'Thunder, or Apparition?'_ Instinctively, her hand tightened on the wand concealed in her coat pocket. A few more moments passed as the light faded and evening mists formed wispy trails through the lowlands.

She could clearly see dark shapes separating from the shadowed tree line, moving stealthily in the lee of the walls toward the farmhouse. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that these figures were not late arrivals, not approaching with such stealth. They were predators keeping pace with the approaching storm.

The people inside the farmhouse were the prey.

Peering through the gathering gloom, she could not spot her partner, Dobson, who was _supposed_ to be keeping watch from the barn. Slipping away from her hiding place, she ran toward the farmhouse. The rain began to fall in warm splatters as the last rays of light surrendered to the storm, plunging the valley into darkness.

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

The first rumbles of thunder rattled the squares of glass in the wooden window frames. A round of bread lay cooling on the stone hearth which dominated one end of the farmhouse's great room. From a cauldron suspended from crewkes over low flames, the steaming sweetness of braised roots mingling with oily meat was easily detectible to his well-trained nose. At the wooden table in the corner of the cooking area, two sallow-faced children — brother and sister by their shared lacklustre straw-coloured hair and pointed chins — sat in silence. Heads bowed over scrolls of parchment, the scratching of quills against rough-hewn table planks was their only contribution to the gathering.

Turning away from the children, he observed that there were now around forty souls gathered. Two of the men had wands out, casting levitation spells to move the last of the wooden chairs to resting places against the wall, leaving the middle of the great room furnished only with pillows and quilts. The low murmur of voices rose in impatience. Men's work boots clunked dully on the wooden floor, whilst long calico skirts and wool robes swished as the regulars greeted each other and waited restlessly for the start of the meeting.

"I think that is all we are having tonight," called out Althorp Dawes, the progenitor of the children's fallow hair and sharp chins. He added the latest arrival's broom to the stack by the door. "We'd best be started."

Obligingly, everyone present formed a lop-sided circle and came to a respectful silence waiting for the usual formalities before reports were to be given.

Almost everyone.

"Oh, here we go again, eh, Snape?" a wizard called Peasgood whispered hoarsely, wiping his sweaty palms in apparent anticipation against the faded green velvet of his unbuttoned frock coat.

Nodding in confirmation, Severus Snape continued his silent study of the floorboards. To the uninitiated, he seemed reverently meditative on the opening events of the meeting. Fellow Order members of longer standing knew him to be just as bored as they were by yet another "recruitment" session. At least the potential for entertainment was there in the presence of Mrs Simms, if by entertainment one meant a train wreck.

"I have five Sickles riding on this, let the floor show begin," Peasgood whispered, wheezing slightly, his throat troubled by the smoke from pipes and the cooking fire. Snape's gaze lifted from the floor to focus on his companion, a middle-aged man of short stature with nondescript brown hair and rheumy blue eyes. Although smartly attired in his best frock coat and polished brown leather boots, his greying shirt was damp with excessive perspiration, and his face was pale with beads of sweat clinging to waxen skin. In contrast to Snape's meticulous attire, Peasgood's frock coat hung open, and given their distance from the great stone fireplace, there was no reason for the man's obvious discomfort.

Reaching inside his robes, Snape produced a slim phial of clear red liquid, sealed by cork and wax, and offered it silently to the man beside him.

Shaking his head, Peasgood grinned, and with a wink, brought forth from his waistcoat pocket a silver flask. He took a quick pull from the ornate flask and it disappeared again into his clothing. "_This_ is the medicine to cure what ails me, Snape," he said, patting his pocket, his breath emitting the strong scent of alcohol.

Wanting to argue the point, Snape opened his mouth only to have Peasgood shush him, his attention focussed greedily on the host, who was glaring at them. Reluctantly, Snape followed suit, slipping the phial back into his robes.

Dawes began, "Thank you all for coming out this afternoon; we shall start this meeting by re-affirming our common intent and purpose— "

He was interrupted by a sharply unpleasant, "Hem, hem," followed by an exaggerated throat clearing.

At the familiar mannerism of Mrs Simms, Snape could feel the muscle spasms twitch along his right eye.

"Yes, Mrs Simms?" Dawes gritted out through clenched teeth.

"We have not offered our thanks and gratitude to He who has led us out of despair and darkness, Althorp. Surely, you would not begrudge all of us who know His ways the opportunity to invoke His protection for us all," she simpered.

In that moment of strained silence, thunder rumbled as the storm grew stronger.

"What's this 'all of us' shit?" Peasgood muttered. "I count three: her, her cat, and her nightmare of a sister at the Ministry."

Althorp Dawes' lower lip stretched impossibly thin; it appeared he was literally biting his tongue. To avoid prolonging the agony, he merely inclined his head and rejoined the circle.

His acquiescence was met with subdued muttering and the discreet exchange of a few coins as friendly wagers among the regulars were settled. An unseen participant remarked, "Oh, not that ruddy invocation business again," and was met with laughter. Peasgood gleefully pocketed a handful of silver coins from his shrewd bet.

Ignoring their reactions, Mrs Simms, a largish woman of fifty-one winters, dressed in a sickly shade of green from head to toe, stepped into the centre of the group and, in the best imitation of Hogwarts' Divination professor since Minerva got into the scotch at the staff Christmas party, began to wave her arms dramatically, bellowing to each corner of the room in turn.

"Mighty Serpent, Guardian of the Realms of the East. Your tongue is a sharp sword, cutting with the knowledge of the arcane. Your spirit flows as graceful as a swift in flight. Purify us with truth!"

Althorp rolled his eyes, but remained silent.

"Mighty Dragon, Guardian of the Realms of the South, your breath is aflame with the fires of inspiration and passion. Your spirit is searing and fervent. Purify us with Love of the Chosen people!" Her voice was now loud enough to drown out the thunder.

"You reckon he ought try a pinch of spearmint for that searing breath?" Peasgood leaned in close to Snape for a moment.

Severus' snort of amusement was quickly covered up by a convenient cough.

"Mighty Serpent, Guardian of the Realms of the West, your coils are the cleansing, healing waves that nurture the soul. Purify us with pulsing tides!"

With that pronouncement, Peasgood was again up against Snape's ear to impart his take on the subject's "pulsing tides", but stopped short at Snape's slight headshake.

"Mighty Lord, Guardian of the Realms of the North, your talons run like roots into the earth, giving you strength eternal. Your spirit is substantial, hard and pure like a clear crystal. Purify us with persistent wisdom!"

Delivering this last verbal crescendo with a particularly emphatic flourish of arm waving, her many rings casting reflections from the green stones and gems adorning her fingers, she paused expectantly for acknowledgement of her work. When appreciation was not forthcoming, she slunk back to the now disintegrating circle, and claimed an oversized pillow. Sitting stiffly, she looked on in disapproval at the younger women who were reclining casually on the quilts, whispering to each other, and "showing far more of their legs and arms than should be allowed in decent company," she sniffed.

"Yes, thank you for that... _that_," Dawes finished awkwardly, clearly at a loss for how to describe Mrs Simms' eccentricities to the newcomers. Severus knew what he saw written on their faces: a mixture of fear, anger and curiosity, especially amongst the new faces tonight, but as always, it was underscored by a world-worn weariness, the despondency that had gripped the wizarding world since the last rise of You-Know-Who. Centring himself mentally with an obvious effort, Dawes launched straight into the opening spiel.

"Friends, we are gathered together to discuss our future and that of our children. Evil forces are rising, holding sway over our way of life; indeed, our very existence as magical beings has been called into question. This evil permeates the Ministry, influences the Wizengamot, and even corrupts our teachers and Healers."

More than one onlooker glanced Snape's way, their gazes travelling curiously over his dark teaching robes.

"No place is free from the withering touch of this pretender to the throne of Merlin. His forces oppress our people, depriving us of our rights as freeborn wizards and witches. He attacks peace-loving folk without reason or cause, and he grows bolder with each passing day. We must join together to defeat the enemy, for alone we risk losing ourselves to the coming conflict."

Snape watched the faces of those gathered in the great room. Women suckled infants while perched on the floor pillows, intently following Dawes' impassioned speech, clutching their children a bit tighter as if to protect them from the looming evil. Men stood in small groups, speaking to those nearby in low voices, or simply nodding in agreement with the speech.

All seemed ordinary, but, as lightning flashed across the sky and rain began to pound the wooden roof, his earlier feeling of complacency fled. He turned away from the now darkened windows with a growing sense of unease.

Everything here was familiar, yet something felt… wrong.

Taking his leave of Peasgood with a gentle touch on the man's shoulder, Snape quietly stole up the wooden staircase to check on the _real_ meeting. The strategy session would doubtless prove far more interesting than trying to convince the provincials to join the cause.

He neared the halfway point on the staircase and froze, his mind's eye processing what he had glimpsed just seconds ago – a shadow in the darker storm where none ought to be. In that last illuminating flash, he had caught an impression of a dark form through the window, wand hand raised.

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

The intruders burst through the front door as if borne by the raging storm. From the staircase, Snape saw black-cloaked figures curse the gathered families without hesitation or mercy. The shrill wail of an infant torn from its mother's breast rose briefly over the din of shouts and hurled objects as those below tried vainly to defend themselves.

Peasgood was backed into a corner, his hands raised above his head in supplication, but was hexed anyway - a Stunner by way his body went rigid and then fell bonelessly to the floor.

There was no time to see more; one of the figures spotted him on the stairwell and shouted, his hood slipping backwards as he raised an accusatory arm.

As the figure's foot touched the first step, Snape could barely make out his cry of, "Severus Snape, you are hereby bound by law to stand— ooof!" A chair struck the young Auror across the back, and he crumpled into a heap, blocking the other Aurors' progress to the stairs. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the young man's ineptitude, Snape rapidly fired hexes at the three Aurors clustered below.

"Severus, come!" Lucius Malfoy called urgently from the top of the stairs.

A sudden movement at the front door signalled the arrival of Nymphadora Tonks, looking like a drowned rat in her Muggle attire. '_She never was on time for classes, meetings or anything else_,' Snape recalled wryly, '_why should this debacle be any different?_'

Ignoring Lucius's entreaty, Snape continued to fight the Aurors.

Some of the return fire from those gathered for the Dark Order meeting was hitting uncomfortably close to the fallen Auror. While fending off the occasional bolt sent his way from below, Snape quickly sent "friendly fire" Stunners to those attempting to finish the job on the downed boy, counting on the confusion to add to the mayhem. The youngster was clearly inept and therefore precisely the type of Auror one in Snape's position would wish to encourage to keep alive and on the job.

Fully half of the attendees had either reached Portkeys, or were unconscious amidst the chaos below. Tonks had fought her way over to the contingent of Aurors and seemed to be having an exchange of angry words with one of them. With an air of defiance, the chastised Auror straightened to his full height, ignoring both the steady stream of hexes flying around him and the furious tirade from Miss Tonks. The target of her fury paused a moment, waiting for the men flanking him to send a volley of spells at Snape, then aimed carefully, slipping past his defences with a sizzle of yellow energy.

Pain seared through his ribs and chest, and Snape lost his footing. "Severus!" Malfoy cried, leaving the relative safety of the upper landing to reach out to his fallen comrade. "Take my hand, old friend. I can pull you up," he urged.

"No, go!" Snape panted, his right arm wedged tightly between his ribs and the floor, as he fired awkward curses left-handed. "Go, now!"

With a last anguished look at the man lying on the stairs, Lucius turned and ran for the Portkey the others had readied in the attic room. "There's no one else coming," he gasped. "Do it now."

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

After taking two busses and surviving a stint on the Underground, Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place, her arms and shoulders aching from the strain of lugging her valise across London.

She stepped up to number eleven and let her gaze at the semi-dilapidated townhouse become unfocussed, staring at nothing in particular. One moment there was only an aged, skeletal grey tabby staring at her from the patch of dirt between numbers eleven and thirteen, and then suddenly the familiar outline of number twelve, the Black house, took shape in the waning sunlight. Elsewhere a car door slammed, and a football match blared from an unseen radio. As usual, it appeared that no one else had noticed the strange addition to their cul-de-sac. Well, no human at least. The grey tabby regarded her with the curiosity its species was famed for as she climbed the steps and knocked at the door, hastily concocted story at the ready when the door creaked open.

She needn't have bothered.

Sirius was so overjoyed at the prospect of company, even hers, that she could barely get a word in edgewise. In less time than she believed possible without using a wand, her bag was dropped inside the door and she was installed into the comfortable leather reading chair in the library. Another moment passed and she held a steaming cup of spiced tea before a roaring fire. Sirius lounged on the settee, boots indolently scuffing the top of the coffee table.

Running out of idle chatter concerning the merits of English versus Indian-grown tea leaves, the proper way to construct a treacle tart, and the failures of various unsticking charms for his mother's portrait in the hallway, he leant forward, taking in her frazzled appearance and remarked, "You're early." He regarded her with a rakish grin.

For the first time, being alone with Sirius made her uneasy. Hermione was used to being dismissed by Harry's flamboyant godfather. He was always so grand, and larger than life. She often thought he would have been perfectly at home on the deck of a pirate ship in the last century. His appeal, however, was lost on her.

"I wanted to get an early start to the station." To preclude any further conversation, she picked up the nearest book from the pile next to the chair and pretended to be engrossed in Wigs and Whiskers: For the Well-Dressed Gentlewizard. It worked, for a while.

"This house has kept many secrets," Sirius finally broke the silence.

Hermione continued to turn pages slowly, squinting in the dim light.

"For example, why would a very capable young witch show up here, alone, the day before term begins? And clearly having dragged a heavy bag after travelling by Muggle means?

At that, Hermione looked up from her reading.

"The bus transfer you had in hand when you arrived," he explained. "Why not simply summon the Knight Bus? And now, perfectly content to sit in a darkened house, reading a book on male hygiene belonging to my great grandfather, with not even a Lumos to illuminate the pages. Ah, yes, there are secrets to be revealed here." His stare was unnerving.

For the first time, she realised that she could no longer hide behind the status of being a child. Now was the time when she would have to begin to confront adult situations and form relationships unlike those made with childlike faith. Wheels within wheels, deception and distrust would all play a part from here on out.

She turned back to the book to centre herself, not deigning to respond.

"Why are you afraid to use magic, Hermione?"

_Thunk_. She closed the book with more force than necessary, and glared up at him. "I have no idea what you're on about. I have excellent eyesight and I happen to like old books, no matter what the subject," she improvised with just a touch of hurt added to her voice for effect.

"All right, all right," Sirius held up both hands, palms out in surrender. "I'm sorry, and completely off base, as usual."

Chuckling, he picked up a book of his own, casting a quick spell to brighten the room. After a moment he added, "By the way, Hermione? The Ministry can neither track your wand nor receive notice regarding any magic you do in this house. Just thought you should know." He smirked, eyes never leaving the page in front of him to witness her blush and guilty expression.

They sat in silence until the soft creak of the front door opening caught their attention. Subdued voices and shuffling footsteps came closer as the Clan Weasley descended upon the House of Black. "Ron, Fred, get these pots down to the kitchen. You lot help me set up the vegetables for the stew. Hurry now, Remus will be here in half an hour for dinner," Molly cajoled her brood into action. Her shadow fell across the library doorway. "Sirius, do you know where I can find more..." her voice trailed off at the sight of Hermione and Sirius sitting cosily by the fire.

"Molly," Sirius acknowledged, smirking as he rose gracefully to leave the room, and sauntered past Mrs Weasley, still dumbstruck in the doorway eyeing Hermione's torn blouse collar.

"Ah, Hermione, dear. Did Minerva bring you?" Mrs Weasley inquired, confused.

'No, Mrs Weasley. My—my parents had a guest to attend to, so I came over here to spend the night before the Express leaves," she explained to the Weasley matron.

"Alone? But why didn't you owl me, dear? I would have come to fetch you straight away! And why is your blouse torn?" She sounded scandalised.

"I must have caught it on a nail," she replied, remembering how Sarah had grabbed onto the material at the apartment. The look on Molly's face told her she was still a poor liar. "And, well, I knew that Sirius would be here at least, so I could be let in...." Suddenly it dawned on Hermione what Mrs Weasley's problem was: Sirius Black. More to the point, her being alone, unsupervised, with Sirius Black. It was fourth year all over again, with the _Witch Weekly_ articles and gossip making Mrs Weasley doubt Hermione's character and morals.

"I didn't think it would be a problem, Mrs Weasley. Honestly, I didn't want to bother you at home the day before everyone needs to be packed up and at Kings Cross."

"I can see that you didn't think," Molly said crossly. "Well that's salt on a doxy's tail by now, so you might as well be useful. Come along, Ginny'll need some help peeling the parsnips."

Not wanting to add petrol to the flames, Hermione shut her mouth and meekly followed Mrs Weasley down the rickety wooden stairs to the kitchen. Upstairs, they heard Sirius slam the door to his room, off the top landing. Apparently he had overheard and understood what Mrs Weasley was implying as well. '_How nice it must be to always be right, even when you aren't,_' Hermione thought to herself, pretending not to notice the distrustful looks sent her way from the ever-virtuous Mrs Weasley.

ooo000ooo000ooo0000ooo

Nymphadora Celestia Tonks was very close to murdering someone. Oh, not any of the bystanders strewn across the floor, but one of her own. She was measuring Dobson's life expectancy in moments. Dilegus Dobson was the worst possible choice as her partner, she reflected—a young man, highly ambitious, exuding an oily charm that set her teeth on edge. And judging from this fiasco, completely untrustworthy to boot.

The mission had been to observe the monthly gathering of Voldemort sympathisers, not to burst in looking for a high profile capture to kiss up at the Ministry. Obviously she had been cut out of the loop, as the other paired teams, led by her soon-to-be-posthumous partner, executed the worst "clandestine" raid since Bertrand the Nearly-Blind broke into Madam Malkin's thinking it a stolen goods warehouse.

She saw Snape felled by Dobson's blast, followed by the appearance of Lucius Malfoy. '_Get up—get up!_' she chanted silently, hoping that Malfoy would be able to extricate Snape before her colleagues began the mop up. In disgust, she witnessed Malfoy abandon his compatriot and flee upstairs. Clearly disoriented, Snape tried to pull himself to his feet, clutching the banister, presenting a viable target once more.

'_Be careful what you wish for, Nymphadora_,' she chided herself. Abruptly turning her back on her blathering partner, she slipped between combatants on both sides and gingerly stepped over Tobias' fallen form, thankful that Snape had deflected some of the damage. A flash of energy streaking past her ear sent her dropping to hands and knees to crawl up the steps, presenting as small a target profile as possible—not an easy task with wand gripped in one hand and spells firing all around her.

Reaching the dazed man, she yanked roughly on his trailing teacher's robe, toppling him onto his back, pinning one arm beneath him at an awkward angle.

"Stay down!" she hissed as he tried to rise once more—his other hand stubbornly gripping the banister. Tonks won their brief battle of wills as his oversized sleeve ripped along the shoulder seam. Reaching up to pull the large silver barrette from her hair, she pressed the hair clip into Snape's hand, enfolding it between hers to force him to grip the silver and pearl object tightly. He gazed at her in surprise, glassy eyes staring at the cascade of newly freed, shoulder-length black hair inches away from his face.

'_Bellatrix_,' his lips silently formed.

Lying flat on the stairs' incline, she felt the unmistakeable tingle of the anti-Apparition wards finally coming down, their energies violently dissipated through the efforts of Manning and Stewart, their unit's designated Breakers. '_Bill Weasley could have had the wards down twenty seconds after entering the house, even wards this powerful_,' she mentally grumbled. '_Too bad the people who set those wards aren't on our side._' Immediately the room was filled with the sounds of Apparition - both the controlled _pops_ of additional Ministry personnel arriving and the painfully loud _cracks_ of panicked people leaving.

Thanking the Powers That Be for the timing that would cover Snape's disappearance, she let go of his fisted hand and whispered the Portkey's activation phrase.

She pushed onward to the upper floor. No one had remained behind, nor was one scrap of parchment left to bear witness to the secrets of the real meeting.


	2. Sunday, Bloody Sunday Part 2

_I can't believe the news today_

_Oh, I can't close my eyes and make it go away_

_~Sunday, Bloody Sunday (U2)_

The last thing Snape heard before falling onto the pavement under a clear moonlit sky was a softly whispered, "There's no place like home."

He remained where he had landed on all fours, breathing in the sharp night air, trying to clear his head before transitioning to his other life. The frigid air he dragged into his lungs burned his nose and chest as painfully as it stung the sliced flesh still smarting from the hex. Shivering from the subsidence of the adrenaline surge as much as from the frost in the air, he staggered gracelessly to his feet and stumbled up the concrete path to the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Unmindful of Walburga Black's portrait in the hall, he leant against the supporting doorframe and pounded a flat palm against the door, the slaps echoing amongst the houses in the cul-de-sac. The door opened and he was greeted by the ginger-haired and blotchy-freckled countenance of Charlie Weasley. Torn between dismissing the seldom seen member of the Weasley faction and finding a way to seek his assistance without really asking, he had the choice taken away by Charlie's expression of hatred and abrupt retreat down the hallway stairs into the kitchen.

"Who was at the door, Charlie?" Molly's voice easily carried up the stairwell to Snape's ears, but he could not make out her offspring's muttered reply.

Mustering his reserves of strength and patience, Snape pulled away from the doorframe and placed his weight firmly on both feet, shuffling past the wooden coat rack and the curtained portrait, his eyes unable to fully focus on anything farther than an arm's length away. Dark spots wavered before his eyes as he carefully negotiated the stairs to the house's lowest level – eyes never leaving the warped and suddenly treacherous plank steps in front of him. The kitchen was full of light, warmth and Weasleys. The long table was the focal point of the gathering as everyone waited for Molly's dishes to be served. The tantalising scent of a roast and jacketed potatoes made his mouth water. He leant against the doorway, desperately wishing he had the stamina to cross the room to the fireplace and Floo back to his rooms at Hogwarts, bypassing this bucolic scene of which he should have no part. '_Wait, the Floo connexions are specially warded in both places, I should have remembered that._' He sagged further against the wooden doorframe, fighting to remain upright as his body begged to surrender to gravity.

"Severus, you're just in time for dinner, please join us."

Molly's invitation sounded genuine. She seemed ever hopeful that the recalcitrant member of their Order would break bread with them. "Ginny, dear, go fetch another chair from the library, will you?"

The youngest Weasley stayed where she was on the far side of the table next to her twin brothers, staring in trepidation at the scowling man in the doorway. He saw the trio exchange glances, clearly not blaming her for her reluctance to go near him. He imagined he looked even more intimidating than usual, looming as he was in the doorway.

"I'll get it," Hermione murmured to no one in particular, rising from her place next to Ginny on the far side of the table and approaching the broodingly silent man in torn black robes. Not meeting his eyes, she sidled past him.

"Now, you boys budge over," Molly instructed Charlie and Ron, motioning them to move their places toward their father at the head of the table. Harry and Lupin also obediently squeezed in tighter together to make room.

Giving a slight chuckle, Lupin Conjured a matching chair and apologised to Molly. "I know you want to enforce the 'use magic only when needed' rule, but Severus looks about ready to fall over."

Ron rolled his eyes, and leaned over to complain to Harry how ever since Fred and George had ruined the fun for the rest of them by ostentatious Apparating from room to room in the Burrow and charming toothbrushes to clean their teeth, his mum had instituted limits on her brood's use of 'gratuitous magic'. Apparently he felt especially put out since his holiday chores included mucking out the chicken coop, sans magic, even though the Ministry made limited exceptions from the under-age magic rule for teenagers in rural farming homesteads.

Lupin placed the chair in the new gap between Molly's place at the foot of the table and Charlie who shoved up against Ron.

"Oi, watch it!" Ron complained, in turn elbowing Harry closer to Lupin's spot for a bit more space.

"Plenty of room for everyone tonight," Molly assured them, leaning in between Fred and George to place the platter of potatoes on the table.

"These are mine," Fred informed Ginny teasingly. "Mum put them right in front of me. Oh, you didn't want any, did you?" He held the warm platter above his head, out of reach of his little sister.

"I can still reach them." George smirked, popping from his seat like a jack in the box, helping himself to a potato and quickly dropping it on his plate. "Watch it, they're hot!"

"Mum! He's doing it _again_," Ginny complained, unable to copy George's manoeuvre.

Harry laughed, soaking in everything. "Careful, Ginny!" he called out, as the youngest Weasley stood on her chair, wobbling a bit in her zeal to spear a potato from the platter.

Snape watched from the doorway as the girl lost her balance, clipping the table's edge as she fell. He remained motionless - not even his wand hand twitched in an effort to prevent her fall.

"Fred!" Molly chastised her son, as she hurried to her daughter's side.

"I'm all right, Mum," Ginny called from her spot on the floor. "See?" She stood up, as George graciously pulled her chair out with a suave, "M'lady."

Giggling, she allowed herself to be treated as a young lady.

"I didn't tell her to climb on the chair, Mum," Fred reasoned in the face of his mother's annoyance.

"I think we've had quite enough shenanigans here tonight – it is time for everyone to sit down and eat," Molly fussed at her brood.

"Except for _him_," Charlie rose to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at the man in black. "Don't want to keep you from doing your _Master's_ bidding." Charlie's venom-laced snarl cut through the stunned silence in the kitchen.

There was motion in the hallway as Hermione returned carrying a chair and hesitated on the steps, waiting for Professor Snape to clear out of the way.

"Here's the chair –" Hermione's next words were drowned out by an explosion of furious voices, all trying to be heard simultaneously. Behind her, she could hear the portrait of Mrs Black cackle with cruel merriment.

"CHARLES WEASLEY – what on earth has gotten into you?" Molly Weasley began the wind up.

"Bro, that was SERIOUSLY uncalled for," George said while his twin, Fred, looked on in apparent disgust.

"He's a DEATH EATER! He kills people and we're just supposed to do NOTHING?" Charlie was advancing with raised wand on Snape, who had not even shifted position, as though this were a normal weekly event at the Weasley clan gathering.

"Son, lower that wand, now. _Right now_." Arthur Weasley, the family patriarch, did not raise his voice, but the absolute power in his command was so unlike his normal, jovial tone that everyone else fell silent. His face had gone pale as he pushed back his chair and moved to confront his son, barely in control of his anger.

"Why are you always defending him?" Charlie roared, spraying spittle with each agonised, gasping breath. "He's one of THEM, how can you let him be around us – Ginny – at school?" Wand still trained on Snape, he continued pleading with his father. "It's _his_ fault Ginny was taken by that monster, he used her, he _raped her mind _and she'll never be normal again – you see how she is now, ever since he hurt her – that's what he does to people, he –"

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

The sharp sound of a father's hand striking his son's face was followed in rapid succession by Ginny's muffled sobs against Molly's shoulder, a platter of food thumping onto the table, and a chair hitting the wooden stairs as it slipped through Hermione's suddenly nerveless hands. Peering around Professor Snape, who _still_ hadn't moved a muscle, she witnessed a terrible scene. Ginny sat wrapped in the loving twin embrace of her brothers, crying so hard it reminded Hermione of a demented case of Cursed hiccups. Ron and Harry were staring in disbelief at the tableau in front of them, Harry shaking his head slowly as if trying to rouse himself from a nightmare. Remus looked embarrassed to have been present at such a private family matter, and Molly stood stock still, watching her son, her mouth opening and closing, but unable to utter a single word.

Arthur stood silently, arms crossed as he regarded his son, who was holding hand to cheek as if he could still feel his father's hand.

"I know it has been very hard for you since your friends were killed, but I am deeply disappointed in you, Charles. I thought we had raised you better than this. Severus is not the enemy."

"Mudblood whelp! Muggle filth in my house!" The portrait of Walburga Black shrilled, announcing a new arrival in the upstairs hallway.

"I'll get it," Hermione muttered, scampering back up to the hallway, only to collide with Tonks and Sirius.

"Shut up, you horrid shrew!" Sirius snarled, yanking closed the heavy velvet curtains lining the portrait.

"Wotcher, Sirius, Hermione," Nymphadora Tonks greeted in passing, her clothes now somewhat dry, moving purposefully around Hermione and toward the kitchen.

Realising that she was now alone in the upper hallway with Sirius, she turned to face him in time to see his appreciative stare at Tonks' backside, which was disappearing down the stairs. He smirked at Hermione's expression of disapproval, and casting one last disgusted look at his mother's portrait, he stomped up the stairs to the second floor, slamming his bedroom door as if daring his mother to comment.

Not wanting to be left alone with the portrait, Hermione hurried down the kitchen stairs, stopping when she reached the black-clad roadblock and the dropped chair.

"Are you all right?" she heard Tonks ask Snape quietly, oblivious to the tense scene that had just played out in the kitchen.

"Perfectly fine," he responded through a tightly clenched jaw, his eyes never leaving Charlie Weasley.

"You took a few bad hits – I don't even know what Dobson sprang on you. I thought you were in real trouble. Sure you don't need to sit down?" At this point she had one hand on Snape's shoulder, and the other placed gently on Hermione's, moving them from the stairway into the crowded room.

"What happened tonight?" Remus Lupin asked, obviously relieved to have a distraction from the family fight.

"You need to sit down," Tonks reiterated, taking note of Snape's unsteadiness on his feet.

Ignoring Charlie for the moment, Arthur Weasley stepped forward, taking Snape's arm firmly in hand. "Come now, Severus, you look done in. No argument," he said quietly.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Tonks assisted in steering the swaying man to the table and into Charlie's abandoned seat, causing Ron to shove his own chair into Harry's thigh in an effort to avoid physical contact with their teacher. "We ended up raiding the meeting at the–" she broke off, apparently noting the presence of the students in the room. "Er, there was a mix-up on assignments, was all, and a bit of a fight."

Tonks was trying not to stare as Molly took her crying daughter from her brothers and steered her quietly around the newcomers and out of the room. George and Fred were seething, shooting angry looks at their elder sibling, Charlie, who looked as though he had been having quite a crying jag of his own. Ron stared down at the table; a red flush of embarrassment or anger – she could not tell which – suffused his pale cheeks. Harry had Snape fixed with a glare, clearly blaming him as the instigator of the trouble – nothing new there.

Tonks sank into an available seat at the foot of the table and watched as Arthur cast a _Reparo_ on the broken chair next to the doorway. If she hadn't known better, she'd have said it had been deliberately smashed into the wall. Wordlessly, Arthur brought the chair to the table and put Charlie in it, briefly touching his hand to his son's shoulder in comfort. Charlie nodded quickly and snatched up a serviette to wipe his face, his emotions still close to the surface. '_Quite understandable,_' Tonks mused silently. Some of the details in the report concerning his murdered teammates in Romania lent themselves to nightmares. Leaving the gutted remains for the dragons to feed upon had been an additional sadistic touch for families left with very little to bury.

Molly returned without her daughter and made no comment about Tonks having taken her seat. She slipped into Ginny's spot and urged everyone to start serving themselves and pass the platters around. Tonks noticed she did not once look up at Charlie. Small talk resumed, hesitantly.

Hermione stood off to the side, and was slowly wiping down the cutting boards with a cloth.

"Come and eat, dear," suggested Molly with forced enthusiasm, though it sounded to Tonks as if she couldn't care less if the girl joined them. Apparently Hermione thought so, too. She continued to quietly clean up the meal's preparation.

'_Okay, someone's knickers are in a right twist_,' Tonks remarked silently.

A sharp clank whipped her head around to the man seated near her. Dark liquid stained the tablecloth, spreading rapidly from the dropped mug.

"Damn it!" Ron yelled, wiping the hot coffee splatter off his arm.

"Language!" chorused the twins, gleefully.

"So cold –" Snape hissed through clenched teeth, shivering violently. His chin was tucked to his chest, and the long black hair swung forward, hiding his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered miserably, bringing his hands to his face, and resting elbows on the table his usual impeccable manners forgotten.

"It's quite all right, accidents happen, Severus," Molly said briskly, pulling out her wand to clean up the spill.

"So much for the no extraneous magic rule," George harrumphed quietly to Fred.

"Too bad that most of the St Mungo's Healers are stationed over at the Quidditch match," Lupin remarked to Snape. "I think we could still be able to scare up someone to take a look at you tonight."

Harry and Ron traded dark looks. Molly's rule about Sunday being family night precluded any hopes of seeing the Cannons game.

Tonks reached out to lay a hand against Snape's forehead and he started violently, grabbing her hand and holding in front of his face roughly. "Don't touch me, Bella!" He coughed, and flecks of bloody spittle peppered their hands.

"Molly, he's bleeding," Tonks said looking at their red-speckled, clasped hands and then into his eyes, deliberately lightening and shortening her hair. This was the second time tonight that he had called her by her infamous aunt's name. "Where are you hit?" she snapped, commanding his attention.

He jerked his hand free, and pushed away from the table, only to slump forward in the chair. Blood flowed freely from his mouth, in shockingly crimson relief against too pale skin. Tonks stared at the warm splatter of blood on her hand and silently vowed to disembowel her partner. '_I'll have Dobson's bollocks in a jar for this, see if I won't...._'

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

"Get blankets," Molly tersely ordered, waiting until Ronald left the kitchen to Conjure one.

"Move! Get him on the table!" People and chairs flew away from the long kitchen table, as wands removed the table's dinnerware and lifted Snape up and onto the cloth-covered wooden surface.

"The thick green cotton one, mind you!" she called after Ron's retreating figure clumping up the stairs. She joined Tonks at the stricken man's side and noticed the blood flowing thickly from nose to chin as well, then dripping on his robes.

_She just wants Ron out of the way,_ Hermione realised. She remained in the corner, watching the adults working over the body of her Potions professor.

Tonks bunched up her jacket and wedged it under Snape's head.

Harry stood by the Floo, hand clenched around the powder in the tin, waiting as he had been taught to do in an emergency. '_The 'Chosen One' must be ready to flee at a moment's notice_,' Hermione knew, '_no matter what happened to the rest of them._'

Curious, Hermione observed Tonks casting a few of the minor diagnostic spells Madam Pomfrey used at the school, while Molly traced her wand tip slowly down his torso, attempting to remove the layers of cloth with a murmured spell and firm tugging.

Snape cried out in pain, the wail rising into a hoarse scream, and then choked off in a convulsive fit. The sliced flesh continued to bleed profusely until Tonks pushed Molly's wand away.

"Wait, we can't use spells – the curse is reactive," she confirmed. "I only know the basic stuff for use in the field – you're the expert. What do we do?" the younger woman's eyes met Molly's in apparent desperation.

"Let me think a moment..." Molly began dabbing away at the cuts with a cool cloth and Charlie moved back to his place at the table to pin down one of Snape's legs roughly while Arthur grabbed the other one.

Forced to refrain from using her wand, Molly tried to loosen his clothing by hand and Snape fought it. He managed to strike her hard in the face as he flailed, yelling, "Get the students out, the wards have fallen!"

"Molly, all right?" Arthur asked, nervously.

"Yes. Fred, George – go make sure Ginny stays in her room."

Showing surprising strength, Lupin pinned Snape's wrists above his head, sidling past Molly to position himself at the head of the table.

"Don't leave him behind, he hides under the _bed_," Snape emphasised, pulling loose from Lupin's grip and grasping onto Molly's apron front.

Recapturing the agitated man's hands, Lupin spoke quietly to Snape whilst chaos reigned around them, quieting him to mere soft grunting. Gradually, as the pain roused him back to alertness, Snape's whispers became audible again.

"...hora mortis nostrae Sacramentis refecti et culpis omnibus expiati, in sinum misericordiae tuae laeti...." He pushed past the pain of consciousness, a legato litany of desperation interrupted only as his blood-sodden shirt was pulled away from the clotted wounds in his belly, causing blood to gush anew as he cried out in agony.

"Shh, I know, I know," Lupin soothed the delirious man.

"I've got the – oh, bloody hell!" Ron announced his return, carrying several blankets, to find his hated Potions professor usurping the place of the roast and lying trussed on the dinner table.

"Get out of the way!" Tonks barked at the gawking boy, frantically helping Molly pull the last of the clothing away from the chest and stomach wounds.

Harry pulled his mate over to the fireplace and turned him away from the bloodied mess ruining the table linen more effectively than any gravy spill ever could. Both boys started as Snape shouted at a phantom Longbottom not to mix dragonfly wings into the potion, intermixed with a sobbing confession to an unseen deity, begging forgiveness for killing his teacher, Minerva McGonagall. He lapsed back into a string of fluent Latin, and Hermione knew with certainty that neither Harry nor Ron could begin to follow it. Mid-sentence, he went silent and still.

"We need to try for St Mungo's anyway," Remus reasoned.

"No, keep the Floo free!"

"Get Dumbledore!" Conflicting orders were shouted at Harry.

"There's no time – he's bleeding out," Tonks shot back. "Molly! _Tell me what to do!_"

"I don't know — I..." Molly Weasley, capable witch and mother to seven children, froze.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

'_He's probably going to die,_ 'Hermione realised. She watched as the adults leant over the table, at a loss of what to do, as she twisted and alternately unwound the dishtowel from around her hand. 'He doesn't like being stared at; any moment he'll tell them all to sod off,' her nonsensical thoughts chased one another in denial of hysteria. '_After... after he's gone, will I be able to see the Thestrals, like Harry?_' Unbidden, she moved closer to the table. Someone has to do something....

Nudging Charlie aside a bit, Hermione wound the towel around her hand, twisting it as hard as she could. Palm flat to the worst of his punctures, she applied direct pressure on the wound over his ribs. To make it work, she leant over the table's edge at an awkward angle and rose up on her toes in order to press the cloth with force. Snape's chest hitched with a painful breath, otherwise he did not protest.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, child?" Arthur Weasley asked, shocked.

"Buying some time," she replied calmly. "Raise his legs up a bit, they need to be kept elevated." Hot fluid welled from between her fingers, staining them dark cherry red and caking her fingernails and knuckles in gore.

Beside her, Charlie Weasley wore a twisted smile.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

The Floo flared green for the briefest of moments, then a stooped man crossed the threshold and moved easily through the confinement of the fireplace to straighten to his full height.

"What has happened here?" he spoke with an authoritative voice, clearly unpleasantly surprised at the chaos greeting his arrival in the cavernous kitchen. The smell of cooking and blood hung heavily in the air.

Charlie and Molly made room for Albus Dumbledore to join them at Snape's side as Tonks filled him in on what little they knew about the spell that had felled Snape.

Hermione inhaled deeply, aware of the sharp scent of pungent green wood and ashes that she always associated with the headmaster. She shifted over slightly as Dumbledore leant over the prone man and began casting low-level spells to strip away the layers of the evil enchantment, brushing his hand across Snape's sweat-slicked hair and resting his palm against his forehead. He stopped for a brief count as the spell reacted to his probing and the guttural cries of pain began again.

Molly stood to the side, staring at the tears streaking Snape's face, falling from the corners of his eyes to the table.

Arthur covered one of Snape's open hands with his own, allowing him to clench it tightly during the worst of the headmaster's ministrations.

Hermione tried to keep direct pressure on the wound, despite the thrashing about. Dumbledore joined Arthur and Lupin in assuring the delirious man that Minerva was well and that Snape had saved her, the man's agitation becoming more violent, causing the clotting wounds to gush anew.

"Fire-call her," Dumbledore finally commanded.

Arthur stepped to the Floo and did so. Moments later, Minerva stepped through and replaced Lupin at Snape's head.

"He won't hurt me," she reassured them, her cool hands framing his face. Snape calmed immediately, and at Minerva's nod, they released his arms.

"He's burning up," Minerva told Molly. Snape's hands closed around her wrists, but appeared to only grasp them loosely. "I'm here, I'm here…" she soothed.

Finally, Minerva was able to step away to allow Tonks to cast simple healing charms to stop the blood loss, Molly consulted, and Dumbledore held the curse's effects in check.

"No Floo tonight," Dumbledore ordered. "The curse is still active – he would burn before reaching the other side."

"We'll keep him here for the night," Arthur said.

"That may well be the best option, but I fear I bring grave tidings of a different sort. You, Molly, and the children all need to show a presence at home immediately. Our friend Cornelius is now directly questioning your role in 'this ill-begotten crusade.'"

"He knows — about us being members of the Order," Molly said, aghast as Arthur looked up suddenly.

"No, he can't — not for certain," Dumbledore assured the anxious pair. "But he suspects. That is why when he calls, which could be a few moments from now, all of you need to be at home and blissfully unaware of what has transpired tonight during the raid. I do not believe he has your Floo connexion under watch yet."

"Come on, Charlie. Go through now, and light all the lamps." Arthur clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, pushing him toward the fireplace.

"I'm getting the boys and Ginny, we're right behind you. Mind you dirty up some dishes and leave them on the table...." Molly's voice receded down the hallway as she scurried off to locate her brood.

"You, too, Harry." Dumbledore turned to the silent boy in the corner of the room. "Fudge will especially be interested in knowing your whereabouts tonight."

"Yes, sir." Without a glance toward the man lying deathly pale on the table, Harry followed Ron into the fireplace, spinning rapidly away into the Floo network, leaving only crackling green flames in his wake.

"In you go," Arthur waved Ginny and the twins through the fireplace portal just before the connexion extinguished itself. Molly took one last look at Snape's seeping wounds.

"Keep that towel pressed down now, Hermione. Do whatever Tonks tells you to, all right? I think it best that you not come with us – it may be questioned," Molly said sternly.

"Yes, Mrs Weasley," she replied quietly.

"The Burrow," Arthur intoned, tossing the powder onto the flames to initiate another Floo connexion.

"Wait!" Dumbledore cautioned, his long sleeve sweeping the air as he pointed at the flames. Looking carefully, Hermione could see an odd gold tinge to the flames, as if someone had sprinkled a pinch of pixy dust over the fireplace.

"They've just activated monitoring of your terminus at the Burrow." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a pink tin stamped 'Almond Roca' on the side. "Wait a moment for the flames to die down and then sever the connexion. You'll need to use the Portkey, I'll create another one for Sirius to use. I must address this new development with Nymphadora before she leaves to make her report."

Dumbledore turned, his elegant midnight-blue robes sweeping along the floor as he moved purposefully toward the stairway.

"Excuse us, Miss Granger."

Hermione started, yanked out of her thoughts by Minerva McGonagall's voice close behind her. She stepped aside, still holding the sodden dishtowel in her hands.

Very carefully, Remus Lupin slid Snape to the edge of the table and pulled him into his arms. Grunting with the effort of carrying the dead weight, he followed Minerva out of the kitchen.

Hermione heard their voices, mixed with those of Dumbledore and Tonks, echoing back along the wood-panelled hallway.

She could hear Mr and Mrs Weasley speaking softly by the fireplace. Her name caught her full attention.

"I'm more concerned about the impact on that poor child," Mr Weasley said quietly. "If Severus... if he doesn't make it through the night, it is unfair to leave her here to deal with that."

"Nymphadora will be back in just an hour or two at the most, dear. There is no need for Hermione to check on him; what can be done has been," Molly reasoned.

Arthur pulled his wife into a quick hug. "Come, now. It will do Dumbledore no good if we are not in place when the Ministry comes calling."

Hermione stepped over toward the hearth, noting that the flames had died and the Floo connexion to the Burrow was broken. "You'd better go," she said softly. "Everything will be all right." It felt odd to reassure the Weasleys, when everything was clearly not all right. In a sane world, classmates and teachers did not die and houses were not burned to the ground for an accident of birth and blood.

With a quick nod of thanks, Mr and Mrs Weasley touched the candy tin, and vanished.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

The last of the adults had Flooed back to Hogwarts, or left for the Ministry in the last half hour. She had used that time to clean up the dinner dishes and put away the uneaten meal. Now, she was alone in the Order's safe house with a dying man whom she had known since discovering the magical world. Should that forced familiarity compel something from her? She recalled the frightened thoughts and emotions from her first year in the magical world – the lies, distrust, and hatred as she realised she would never be accepted for what she was, even here. _'Whispers surround me, sibilant,'_ she recalled the line from her diary. _'They wait for me to fail, to leave this place and go back to the life I led before I knew how abnormal it all was. How abnormal I was.'_

The doorknob turned slowly in her hand, bearing silent witness to her betrayal of Molly Weasley's trust.

He lay as still as death on the bed linen, black hair contrasting with the pale skin and daisy yellow sheets, the light green comforter — as though he were buried under green grass and flowers already. She shivered at that thought, and after seeing the silent rise and fall of the blanket as he drew breath, she closed the door.

Hermione returned to the kitchen, fixed a cup of tea, and continued to reflect on the long, strange association between a daughter of dentists and one of the most powerful wizards she'd ever encountered.

The sound of something breakable smashing on the floor drove her to her feet in an instant, steaming teacup forgotten. Rushing back to the bedroom, she was shocked to see him reclaimed by the fever — twisting, moaning, and babbling. She cast _Reparo_ on the smashed wash-bowl and bedside porcelain pitcher set; then, stepping out into the small bathroom next door, she set about preparing a tincture. Filling the bowl with warm water and grabbing a hand towel, she looked for the lavender oil drops she knew Ginny kept in the drawer.

She re-entered the bedroom to find no sign of the dazed wizard, only blood-spotted sheets strewn on the floor.

She crept closer to the bed and a hand clamped onto her ankle and pulled her to the floor, breaking the bowl a second time as it flew from her hands and sent lavender-infused water cascading across the floorboards. He was under the bed, and his hands were pressed around her throat in an instant.

"My wand," he demanded hoarsely, trying to extricate himself from his hiding place, but not wanting to loosen his hold on her.

"You've been hexed — I... I don't know where your wand is," she answered truthfully, her hands clutching at his, trying to pull his fingers off her throat.

His breath hitched and he rode out another series of tremors, worse this time. His hands fell from her and flailed helplessly against the floor, his wounds bleeding again. She sat up, pushing a pillow under his head to stop his striking it against the wood. His pulse was pounding so hard that she fancied she could hear it, and he cried, "No—no, I don't know anything. Don't know where Dumbledore and the others go, they tell me nothing!"

His lips were turning blue from lack of oxygen, and the veins stood out in sharp relief against the pallid skin of his neck as his heart hammered frantically in terror. He was as far from the controlled wizard who terrorised the classroom as she could ever imagine.

"Professor, you're safe here – you're sick – hexed," she tried again to reason with him.

"No, I don't believe you," he gasped, dark eyes rolling back until only white showed.

"Professor, listen to me, please!" She leaned down and spoke directly into his ear, her breath causing a lock of his long hair to flutter. _"The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._"

Suddenly, before she could straighten up again, his arms were wrapped around her waist, his head buried into her shoulder. He did not utter a sound, but she could feel him breathing rapidly, the febrile heat radiating from him. '_Just when I thought this couldn't get any more awkward_,' she thought, fighting a sudden urge to pull away from the man and flee.

As quickly as the fit began, it was over. He lay still again, eyes open and staring at her. "Do I know you?" he whispered, seeming more lucid this time.

"I'm your –" She hesitated. '_Student? Future fellow member of the Order? Verbal punching bag?_'

"I—I don't feel good," he whispered, allowing his eyes to close, trusting that he was in no danger from her.

Hermione snorted. ' _Understatement of the year, Professor. Ten points from Slytherin,_' she thought hysterically.

"I think I'm dying," he stated the assertion calmly; only the slight quaking along his jaw belied his calm acceptance of that fate and the struggle to maintain rational thought in the presence of the fever.

"You're not going to die," she replied in the matter-of-fact tone that Harry and Ron detested. Presuming to take an additional liberty, she traced the line of spilt tears along one cheek, fascinated by the water's trail over the lean, bilious flesh.

"Insanguinae," he replied in a soft whisper. "_Cruor Incendia_."

"Oh." Her hand froze, finger touching the heated skin alongside his mouth, following the tear's path to its conclusion.

She had no memory of how much time passed as the cruel impact of those two simple words reverberated in her mind. The boys, immature gits that they all were at this age, would speak about the Blood Fire Curse in whispers, not daring to joke about it openly where an adult might overhear their coarseness and assign a term's worth of detentions. Occasionally, there were rumours of its illicit use by Magical Law Enforcement on suspected criminals, along with other crude methods of torture. For someone to use this on him — it was unthinkable.

Owing to the morbid curiosity of youth, she had included this curse in her unsanctioned reading material late at night in the Restricted Section. While there was no counter-curse, there were... actions... one could take to help mitigate the damage to his ability to use magic. Even then, the fever could still consume his life. Glancing at the clock on the wall, and mentally estimating how much time had passed since the fever took hold of Professor Snape, Hermione realised that his struggle would be over very quickly, one way or the other. Already the focussed look was leaving his eyes, and the harsh, painful breaths were terrible to hear.

As he sank once more into the throes of the fever, he seemed so helpless. Staring down at the man cradled in her arms, she knew that she was out of time and options.

She pushed aside her fear, ready to prove that she truly understood this world and the sacrifices it required. "Professor, please forgive me," she murmured. From what seemed a lifetime away, the clock's bells chimed midnight.


	3. Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays

_The silicon chip inside her head_

_Gets switched to overload_

_And daddy doesn't understand it_

_He always said she was good as gold_

_And he can see no reasons_

_'Cos there are no reasons_

_What reason do you need to be shown?_

_~I Don't Like Mondays, The Boomtown Rats_

When asked later, she could not honestly say if it was the low murmuring of voices or the soft scuff of boots across the bare wood of the library floor that woke her.

Knowing that she was safely at headquarters, she feigned sleep, hoping that whoever was there would just pass by the sofa.

"Hermione?"

She willed herself to remain still, her breathing even and slow.

"Hermione," Tonks called again, and there was no ignoring the gentle hand laid against her shoulder. Giving up the pretence of sleep, she allowed herself to be 'awakened' by Tonks.

"Come on, let's get you home," she said quietly, carrying Hermione's cloak from the coat tree folded over her arm. If she noticed Hermione's change of attire, she didn't comment.

Standing up, she allowed Tonks to wrap the woollen travelling cloak about her, covering the ludicrously large pyjama top and fleece bottoms she'd 'borrowed' from Harry's forgotten duffle bag. Either the too-long fleece obscured her bare feet, or Tonks was too tired to notice. They moved silently through the darkened house, the way lit by the soft blue glow emanating from Tonks' wand.

"Sorry to wake you," Tonks apologised, "but at least you'll have a few more hours of sleep in your own bed before the Express leaves in the morning."

Hermione made a non-committal grunt, retrieving her bag and blinking owlishly in the darkness as they stood outside the front door. "Hold up, Hermione," Tonks said. "Kingsley's checking on Severus."

'_There's no need_,' she thought, shivering despite the heavy cloak.

Noticing her shudder, Tonks pulled her close. "That can wait, I suppose. I need you to think about your house, concentrate on the details and how much you want to be there _right now_."

Closing her eyes, Hermione dutifully summoned up the requisite memories of the condominium, with its postage stamp-sized square of regulation green grass, the gleaming stone and glass front of the building with its polished dark green marble floors around the lift banks.

Upstairs on the fifth floor would be a set of doors – the door to number fourteen would give way to plush white carpets, tasteful pastels and a white expanse of stainless steel appliances in a kitchen so sterile it would be the envy of hospital surgeons everywhere.

The one spot of blight would be the ubiquitous cartons of Indian take-away crammed into the kitchen's dustbin, awaiting removal by the crisply uniformed housekeeper in the morning.

Sensing a lack of will and focus, Tonks prompted her again to think of _home_. The two women vanished with a soft _pop_.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

The gates of Hogwarts loomed before them, given a ghostly halo by the pre-dawn mist rising from the Forbidden Forest. "Don't you want to go home and pack, have breakfast with your folks?" Tonks asked, eyeing the valise in her hand.

"I have everything that I need _here_," was her reply.

With an exasperated sigh, Tonks led the way through the gates and up to the massive wooden doors where, after a half-hour of pulling the bell rope, Mr Filch appeared, none too pleased to be turned out of bed in the wee hours of a Monday morning, if his scowl and abrupt manner were any indication. By that time Hermione could barely feel her feet.

Tonks bid her farewell at the front door with "Now, you'll go straight up to bed, right?"

Filch snorted, practically closing the massive doors in the Auror's face. Silently, Hermione padded barefoot across the ice-cold flagstones in the corridor led by the luminescence of Filch's lantern.

The castle was eerily dark, the unlit sconces keeping the portraits shrouded in shadows. As they approached the entrance to Gryffindor tower, Hermione felt a moment of panic. Classes weren't due to begin until noon when the Express arrived from London – what if the Fat Lady refused to let her into the dorms? Could Filch, the castle's caretaker, order a portrait to open?

Her fears proved to be groundless. The massive portrait, which usually covered the bolthole to Gryffindor tower, stood ajar, its frame displaying an empty expanse of canvas.

"In you go, missy," Filch said sternly. "It's well past time for decent folk to be abed."

Thanking him perfunctorily, she stepped through the circular opening into the common room, and wearily climbed the stairs to her dormitory. Memories of soft sheets, scented by sunshine and fresh air from Mrs Weasley's clothesline, filled her mind as she attempted to ignore the reality of the crisp and cool, slightly musty linen in the tower.

Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, she withdrew a pink plastic box that screamed 'Muggle,' as plastic was virtually unknown in the magical world – everything was in glass, or wood or specially charmed paper. Inside the box was a plastic and wire night guard. The retainer was the latest attempt by her parents to exercise some control over an aspect of their daughter's strange, new life. The dichotomy of dividing her non-school life between her friends at the Burrow and her parents in London led to a delicate walk across an emotional tightrope. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt anyone, she decided. With a grimace of distaste, she tossed it toward the open drawer in her bed stand. She had no intention of wearing the night guard outside of her parents' home, if she were ever to go to that home again.... Any straightening that her teeth needed could be dealt with much more efficiently and much less painfully by magic.

Exhausted, she quickly threw off the heavy cloak, allowing it to form a puddle of black wool on the floor, and slipped under the covers of her small bed.

Slowly, her body heat served to warm the icy cotton sheets and a new memory arose to replace those of Mrs Weasley's clean laundry. In those last few moments between wakefulness and sleep, she inhaled the tantalising scent of black liquorice and copper pennies mixed with a musky sweat which still clung to her skin. A slight smile graced her lips as she surrendered to the charms of Morpheus.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Hermione remained undisturbed through the morning hours, until the hustle and bustle of her returning classmates invaded the tower. She'd missed lunch in the Great Hall and now had only twenty minutes to retrieve her remaining textbooks and run to the afternoon session of classes. With no time for a shower, Hermione quickly changed into her uniform skirt and blouse, still showing the crease marks from being tossed carelessly into her bag the previous week. Making a clucking sound of disapproval, Lavender took pity on her inept dormmate and smoothed away the wrinkles with a few passes of her wand.

"Thanks, Lavender," Hermione said gratefully, sincerely touched by the other girl's act of kindness. She should have known better.

"We're not starting out this term with negative House points because you're a slob," the impeccably coiffed Lavender sniffed. "But you're on your own with that hair," she continued, eyeing the rat's nest of tangled strands. "Not even Merlin could fix _that_ in ten minutes."

Turning away from her critic with a scowl, Hermione quickly ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back tightly into a ponytail bound with an elastic tie. It wasn't pretty, but it was regulation for Potions class, and serviceable.

Taking a quick glance in the looking glass, Hermione saw a pale image returning her gaze. Did she look any different today than she had before yesterday? Her skin was devoid of any cosmetics, earning her a pitying stare from Parvati and a disdainful look from Lavender.

"Oh, honesty, Hermione. You are hopeless. Now, come on before we lose points for being late!" Lavender grabbed Parvati by the arm and the two girls pounded down the wooden staircase to the common room.

Grateful that she had left everything but her Astronomy and Potions text books at school, she gathered her book for Defence and her kit for the double session of Potions, along with her usual cadre of parchment, nibs, mints, drinking straws, and extra quills, she set out for Umbridge's room, her stomach growling.

A sudden thought brought her up short, causing her to stop abruptly in the midst of the rushing students: Would there actually _be_ a Potions class today? After the events of last night, she knew better than anyone how badly off their Potions master had been. She was fairly certain he had survived his injuries, but to expect him to appear less than a day after, and teach class, was not reasonable. And who else on staff could take the upper level Potions classes? No one that she knew of held the qualification.

"Oi, Hermione!" called Ron.

"Wait up," Harry added, hurrying with Ron to flank the third member of their trio.

"Who do you think will be teaching Potions?" Ron asked, echoing Hermione's recent thoughts.

"It'll most likely be a study hall," Harry hazarded a guess.

"Cor, blimey!" It was Ron's turn to stop short, causing the mass of rushing students to part around them. "You don't think he's snuffed it, do you?" Rather than being upset by the thought, he seemed rather excited. "Though, mind you, it will make eating dinner at the kitchen table a bit creepy."

Harry nodded in agreement while grabbing Ron's elbow to urge him onward toward the Defence classroom.

Hermione's sharp response was forestalled by the sudden appearance of Professor McGonagall at her side carrying a large goblet.

"Good afternoon," she said primly, falling into step. "I trust you all are rested and ready to resume your classes?"

"Yes, Professor," they responded, Ron shooting Harry a panicked look. Harry shook his head ever so slightly – indicating to his mate that he doubted Professor McGonagall had overheard their gleeful speculation over the demise of their dreaded Potions master.

"Drink this, Miss Granger," the Professor instructed, handing the goblet to her. "I know you missed lunch today, and quite possibly a few meals prior to that, having arrived at such a late hour."

It was now Harry's turn to send a guilty look Ron's way. He hadn't even noticed Hermione's absence at lunch – he had thought she'd been busy with her prefect duties on the train.

Hermione lifted the heavy goblet and took a cautious sip. The juice was like nothing she'd ever had before – a deep purple colour, with an aroma of peaches and fresh basil, but the chilled drink was making her overly sensitive teeth ache. A visit home usually meant painful orthodontic work courtesy of her dentist parents. She quickly moved the goblet away from her mouth, earning her a frown from McGonagall.

"You need to replace the meals you've been missing, Miss Granger. Your choice is to either drink that potion or spend the day in the hospital wing. Surely you do not want to miss class your first day back? The taste is not that bad."

"Oh, no, Professor, it is delicious – really fruity. I appreciate you bringing this for me. It's just that..." she trailed off. Sighing, she handed the goblet to Harry and fished a paper-covered drinking straw from her book bag. With a deft movement, the paper wrapper was banished to her pocket and the straw found its way into the goblet. Retrieving the nutritional potion, Hermione quietly sipped as they reached the classroom doorway. She had realised long ago the futility of trying to explain such a foreign concept as Muggle dentistry to McGonagall.

"Good then. Drink it slowly over the hour. It should bring back some of your colour."

Rather than leaving them at the door, McGonagall accompanied them into the classroom, her eyes fixed on Dolores Umbridge as if daring the woman to object to the presence of the Deputy Head.

"Miss Granger will be imbibing a necessary potion during your class, Dolores. I'm sure this will not cause any disruption to the students' _learning_." Her slight emphasis prompted a few discreet coughs from the braver students.

"Of course not, Minerva," Professor Umbridge replied through tightly stretched lips. Hermione could almost hear the woman's teeth grinding together in her effort not to lose her temper as Professor McGonagall left the room.

"Well then, if the _special needs_ of certain students are taken care of now, perhaps we can start the class?" Umbridge's glare never wavered from the pale girl, who sat quietly sipping at her potion and fluttering her eyelids innocently. Harry grinned madly, pleased for once to be off Umbridge's radar, while Neville struggled to keep a straight face at Hermione's expression of feigned naivety.

"Good afternoon, class."

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," came the expected response of bored voices.

Umbridge continued to glare at the conspicuous goblet, but abstained from further comment, preferring instead to augment the tedious reading assignment with a lecture about how things were about to change at Hogwarts, and that the inclusion of Ministry-approved courses and texts would be for the betterment of them all. Through the long discourse, Hermione continued to sip at the potion and maintain a "butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth" expression, which seemed to annoy Umbridge and delight her classmates in equal measure. Neville and Ron used her desk as a pass-through for a series of notes to each other speculating on the new Ministry-approved courses they might be subjected to, such as: Bootlicking, The Fine Art of Sucking Up, Toadyism, Suppressing Intelligence.... Several times, Hermione and Harry, who was surreptitiously looking over her shoulder at the parchment scraps, had to stifle giggles as the list of prospective 'classes' grew. All too soon, though, the class ended, and her thoughts turned again to the plight of the Potions master.

As she, Ron and Harry descended a stone staircase for the dungeons, they passed a gaggle of first-years ascending to the main floor. "Excuse me, could you tell me if you had Professor Snape in class just now?" she asked.

"Pleasesaynopleasesayno," Ron chanted under his breath.

"No, we had study hall this afternoon with a prefect," a small, blonde-haired girl replied.

"Thanks," Hermione said, discouraged, as Harry and Ron high-fived each other at the confirmation of Snape's absence.

"Whoa, maybe he really _did_ croak," Ron said wide-eyed to Harry, who grinned at the thought.

"Oh, honestly. Grow up!" she snapped at her companions as she stepped up her pace toward the Potions classroom.

Hermione felt a flutter of anticipation in her stomach when, upon entering the room, she spotted Snape, seated at his desk for once – there was to be no temperamental entrance for grand effect _this_ time. He did not glance up from the tome he was poring over with his usual intensity and focus. Hermione felt a small pang of hurt at not seeing any sign of special recognition.

"Damn."

"Figures."

Hermione turned to glare at Ron and Harry before taking her assigned seat in the front row. Snape liked to keep the three of them in sight up front – rather than being onerous, Hermione found that it actually cut down on the harassment from the Slytherins. Snape may have disliked Harry, but he brooked no disruption during their hands-on work in class.

"That's the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain - what are _they_ doing here?" Ron questioned, indicating the two additional students hurrying to join Snape.

"Dunno," Harry replied, eyeing their Ravenclaw insignias and blue-striped ties.

"I think they're here to help," Hermione reasoned. She watched as they deferentially took verbal instruction from the teacher. Even having taken her usual place in the front, Hermione couldn't make out his words; only the low-pitched, rhythmic cadence of his precise delivery style was discernable.

"Quiet down," he spoke at his normal volume to the class, startling Neville, who dropped his kit in surprise at the sudden, sharp command. All conversation ceased instantly, and every student's complete attention was focussed on the seated man in his coal-black robes. The Ravenclaws flanked him on either side, an honour guard.

"A brief announcement is in order," he began, fixing his sharp gaze on the class. "Due to..." his voice uncharacteristically cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. "...unforeseen circumstances," he continued, his voice regaining its hypnotic quality and strength, "I will be unable to directly assist you in today's lesson. As I will be unable to touch the ingredients, I won't be able to save you from yourselves."

A low murmur went through the rows behind her, and Hermione could well imagine people shifting away from Neville's desk.

"This does not mean, however, that I am giving you license to do anything other than your best effort today. Your O.W.L.s approach, and you would do a disservice to yourselves by not taking advantage of every opportunity to brew this term. Miss Fawcett and Mr Davies will be available to assist you today – I _suggest_ that you listen to them. The instructions are on the board – you may begin," he concluded.

Anicee Fawcett turned over the blackboard containing the instructions for the targeted potion, and the students scattered to the Potions cupboard or to pull additional reference materials from the bookcase. After reading the instructions through for the third time, Hermione began to set out her ingredients and tools. As usual, no one wanted her as their partner, which was just as well. She took comfort in the fact that she could out-brew any other student in her year, even working solo. Harry and Ron partnered up and seemed to be taking a looser approach to the assignment; 'glance at the board and just start chopping away at things' seemed to be the order of the day.

Hermione shook her head slowly. She didn't bother to correct them anymore – by now, they knew the consequences of shoddy preparation in this class, and they didn't much care.

"No, no! Like _this_, plonker," Davies corrected, taking the silver knife from Ron and carefully stacking and rolling up the leaves. He held the roll tightly, and then started to make quick slices parallel to the woody stems. "You chop like you fly, Weasley – half-arsed. You want to end up with long, thin ribbons, and minimise the bruising," he instructed.

"Chiffonade," Harry said suddenly, causing the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain to glance at him in approval.

"Hmm?" Ron looked over at his partner curiously.

"It's like a cooking technique my aunt..." Harry trailed off, expression darkening at the reminder of his time growing up with the Dursleys.

"Look!" called a triumphant Draco Malfoy to the other Ravenclaw assistant.

"These are sliced perfectly," complimented Anicee Fawcett.

Harry smirked, his bad mood abated. "I wonder if Draco knows he's perfected house-elf work?" he asked Ron and Hermione loudly. "I mean, I'm sure that Dobby had to learn kitchen scutwork from _someone_...."

He shut up immediately as Snape's shadow loomed over their desks. Feeling a momentary attack of panic, Hermione kept her gaze fixed on her herbs, not daring to meet the eyes of such a formidable Legilimens after the improprieties of last night. It didn't do her any good.

"Miss Granger, I require your assistance," he stated calmly, ignoring Harry's baiting of the Slytherins.

A half-dozen retorts, none of which were at all appropriate, came to mind. Compromising, she raised her gaze to his throat, and managed a normal-sounding, "Yes, sir?"

The visible skin above his collar still had a hint of colour, as though the scratches and ... _other_ marks were resistant to whatever healing spells had been applied. Lest he think she was mocking him, she quickly stared at his nose. That wasn't any better... that's what people tried _not_ to stare at. Giving up, she met his gaze firmly, praying that he was not in the mood to intrude upon her thoughts.

His dark eyes were narrowed, his expression puzzled at her atypical behaviour. "Gather your things and come with me."

Despite the inner voices growing louder with increasingly inappropriate suggestions on what she could assist him with _this_ time, she complied with his order and followed him down the aisle to the middle rows of desks.

"Out!" he barked at the students on either side of Neville, causing them to hurriedly grab their kits and scoot out in search of open desks.

"For once, I am giving you permission to assist Mr Longbottom openly. Just don't let him kill anyone, Miss Granger," he said wearily, with eyes closed, one hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture that Hermione knew meant his current headache must be severe.

Pivoting, he walked briskly back to his desk and sat straight-backed, eyes still closed, looking as though he wished to be any place else but this Potions classroom. She sighed and placed her cutting board and kit on the open desk next to fellow Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Neville apologised miserably.

"For what?" she asked, setting up her ingredients again.

"He's punishing you because he's in such a lousy mood," Neville concluded.

"On the contrary, Neville," Hermione replied with a small smile. "I take it as a great compliment that, with two of his best Advanced Potions students in here to supervise, he asked me to come work with you."

"Oh," said Neville quietly, taken aback by this new perspective. "Well, I guess that's all right then."

"It is." She returned his smile, and they set to work correcting the greyish mass of matted vegetable matter in Neville's work bowl.

The low hum of voices, staccato chopping of blades against wooden boards and the hiss of steaming cauldrons was interrupted by a sharp cry of pain, followed by Professor Snape's rapidly-spoken, "_Protego_!"

Hermione gasped. A shield charm? He had to invoke a shield charm _against a student_?

Everyone was staring at the yellow goo violently splashed in an arc on the floor in front of the professor. He was enraged, his hands clenched in fists at his sides, his wand shaking as she watched the man struggle to control his temper before addressing Dean Thomas with a fiercely hissed, "OUT!"

Dean needed no prodding, he was on his feet instantly, running toward the classroom door. As he passed Hermione, she could see where the botched concoction had melted away his sleeve and blistered his forearm.

"I—I'm sorry, Professor!" Davies looked as white as a sheet. He quickly cast an _Evanesco_ to clean up the splattered mess.

Glaring at the Ravenclaw with a disgusted expression, Snape returned to his desk without saying a word. He sat with his head in his hands, allowing his dark, shoulder-length hair to cascade over his arms and brush against the tome he had been reading. He paid no attention to the class, prompting Harry and Ron to pick up their things and move into Hermione and Neville's row.

"Whoa, did you see how pale Davies went when Snape didn't even yell at him? It's like someone stomped on his puppy," Ron whispered.

"What happened?" Hermione asked urgently. "Why on Earth would Dean attack him with the potion?"

"He didn't," Harry explained. "Davies was lurking over there, supposedly watching Dean and Seamus mixing the sulphur in, and you know Dean – he ended up with lumps, so he started to shake the cauldron to try to mix it up better."

Hermione gasped again, and Neville gulped. That had been what he had tried to do moments before, and Hermione had stopped him, calling him an idiot.

"Yeah," Harry continued, knowing that Hermione would understand the seriousness of what had happened next. "The undiluted dragon's blood must've hit a lump, and it was just flying everywhere. I think Dean got a bit of it on his robes, but just as it was about to splash the whole section, it just flew backward, toward Snape. I didn't hear him utter a sound."

"He didn't speak," Anicee said quietly, leaning over to check their cauldrons. "It was the damndest thing I've ever seen," she confided to the four Gryffindors. "Close as I can figure it, he cast a silent Summoning charm – no wand, mind you – and pulled the acid away from everyone."

"That explains the _Protego_, then," Hermione reasoned. "He had his wand out by then, and no time to Vanish the liquid before it was going to hit _him_. It was too spread out for a single spell to get it all."

"Oh, I don't want to be Davies after class ends," Ron said with a smirk.

"But it was Dean's fault," Harry objected.

"Yeah, but we're supposed to be keeping you all from screwing up," said Anicee. "Snape trusted us to keep things from happening and Madam Pomfrey told us he's not supposed to use any magic today, on account it's so weak right now."

"Snape's magic is _weak_?" snorted Neville. "He just cast two spells I can't even get to work half the time, and one was wandless." He actually sounded a bit impressed with the professor. Ron rolled his eyes, apparently not as easy to impress as Neville.

"Well, it is temporary – some sort of accident, I heard, but really, he is running on empty right now. Don't you dare even think of acting up." She smiled ruefully at Harry and Ron's eye-rolling and moved on to the next section of seats to check cauldrons.

"No problem," Neville muttered, watching as Hermione performed the final step of their potion. She then set up a second cutting board and relit the fire under the cauldron stand.

'Er, we only have to turn in one," Neville reminded her.

"I know, this is for something else," she replied.

Ron and Harry traded looks that clearly said what they thought of their friend's mental state – who would ever want to brew an extra potion for points after a double session's work? They resumed work on their one, _assigned_ potion.

Undeterred, she began stripping leaves from a stalk of feverfew.

Snape did not move for the remaining half-hour of class. At the end-of-class bell, each student took up a carefully labelled phial of potion and laid it in the box held by Davies. Snape did not look up to comment or inspect any of the phials, which ranged in colour from Hermione and Neville's brilliant yellow to Goyle and Crabbe's mucus green offering.

There were some murmurs of surprise from the more serious Potions students – Snape had always given an initial indication of their quality when they turned in the samples. He could tell at a glance and sniff what other instructors would need hours of testing to determine.

"You'll need to wait until next time," Anicee explained firmly to a protesting Slytherin. "By all means, if you want your potion zapped and the magical properties to become inert, go ahead and hand this to the professor. You'll take a big, fat zero for the day - _he can't touch it_," she explained, losing patience.

A disturbance in the hall caught Hermione's attention as she, Harry, Neville, and Ron were repacking their kits. Umbridge was standing just outside the doorway arguing with McGonagall. A quick look over her shoulder told her that Professor Snape hadn't noticed their presence. Slowly, Hermione edged toward the doorway, curious to hear what was being said.

"Oi, Hermione! Can I copy from your notes?"

Hermione whirled around, holding a finger to her lips and glared at her oblivious friend.

"Whatever," Ron muttered, turning back to his ink-splotched parchment.

Hermione inched closer to the doorway, flattening against the wall, the voices now audible.

"... and I don't appreciate being pulled out of class, Dolores. Really, if you need to speak with Hagrid and Severus, simply make an appointment after dinner."

"These matters _simply_ will not wait, Professor McGonagall. If you find yourself unable to monitor this class, I can find someone more _capable_."

"I'm certain that won't be necessary." Dumbledore's firm tone carried clearly to Hermione. "In fact, the matter will soon be put to rest. It is fortunate for Hagrid that he was at the Hog's Head last night; and you and Severus were working on lesson plans and student lists until the early hours," he assured McGonagall calmly. "There is absolutely no cause for concern among the staff, Dolores."

Hermione could see Dolores Umbridge's lips tightening in annoyance as the trio entered the room, and continued walking slowly toward the front of the classroom. Hermione trailed behind, under the pretence of collecting discarded parchment scraps and small amounts of leftover plant materials from the desks, the phial of blue potion tucked safely in her pocket.

As they approached Snape's desk, Umbridge raised her hand, finger wagging back and forth almost playfully under the headmaster's long nose. "Not another word, Headmaster, if you please."

Her sing-song lilt and childish mannerisms aside, it was quite clear that she was angry with Dumbledore's prompting of McGonagall.

Had Professor Snape heard what Dumbledore said? Hermione doubted it – they had been too far back, and the scraping of wooden stools against the rough stone floor by departing students precluded eavesdropping – unless one was directly behind the conversants, she smirked, brushing a few forgotten sprigs of dandelion leaf into her hand from Parvati's desk.

"Surely there's no need to go all the way to your office, Dolores," Minerva McGonagall grumbled as they came to a halt in front of Professor Snape's desk. He remained in the same position – head in hands, hair obscuring his face.

"Hem, hem." Dolores Umbridge was nothing if not subtle, Hermione snickered.

Slowly, Professor Snape raised his head and sat up stiffly, eyeing the trio before him with poorly concealed annoyance. Umbridge held up her hand, forestalling any speech from her fellow staff.

"To what do I owe this most singular honour?" His voice sounded weary, yet not overly surprised to find them in his classroom. He stared at each of them in turn, lingering an additional moment on Dumbledore, which Umbridge noticed.

"Ah, we'll have none of _that_, shall we?" she chastised Snape, stepping directly into his line of sight. "I will thank you to look at me when I am speaking to you, Professor Snape."

Oh, no, Hermione realised that Snape had hoped to gain insight from the headmaster via Legilimancy. She doubted that an exchange between two such powerful Legilimens would even need a wand or spoken incantation. Scouring her memory, she tried to recall everything she'd read about this most subtle art of communication.

Umbridge continued to close in on Professor Snape, firing off questions, uncaring that any remaining students would witness her interrogation of him. She received no answer.

In sheer desperation, Hermione stepped forward, around the adults, and planted herself at the side of his large desk, forcing him to break away from the rapid-fire questioning to focus instead on this 'moste audacious' interruption.

"Do you _mind_, Miss Granger?" Umbridge snapped, her patience for stalling at an end.

"Not _now_," Snape spat out through clenched teeth.

McGonagall opened her mouth, only to close it when she felt Dumbledore's hand on her shoulder.

Summoning the ghost of her first-year self, she quickly blurted out, "But, Professor Snape, you said I was to see you _immediately_ after class about my punishment, sir!" she improvised, knowing that the prospect of seeing her get her comeuppance would prove to be irresistible to the High Inquisitor.

"Punishment?" Dolores shifted her stern gaze from Snape to her. "Do you mean to say that you are as disruptive in this class as you are in my own?" she asked malevolently.

"Nnn-no, Professor Umbridge!" she stammered, dredging up all the fear and awe she felt as a first-year around the teachers. '_God, was I really this insufferable?_'

"Do you understand why you are in this predicament, Miss Granger?" Snape asked, locking his gaze on her and giving no outward sign that he hadn't a clue as to any of the cover stories. Not once had he ever assigned Miss Granger a detention of any sort.

"I-I'm sorry for w-what I did," Hermione said in one rushed breath.

"What did she do, Professor Snape?"

"I think it best that Miss Granger confess her sin," he replied.

'_Oh, well played, sir_,' she thought. If they only knew how Professor Snape had spent last night, with those strong fingers pressing into her left breast hard enough to leave a bruise – Hermione flinched as that thought came forward. '_No! No! No! Think about books, and dusty old rolls of parchment_,' she ordered her mind's eye.

"I-I..." she trailed off, still staring intently into his eyes, willing him to make the connection.

Obediently visions of a late night in the staff room took form. Long tapered candles flickered, burning low. McGonagall sipped a steaming cup of tea, while Professor Snape's black hair shone in the dancing light of the fireplace. Parchments containing student names were piled around the table for perusal. She pushed everything else aside, and clenched her teeth so hard they ached. '_Read me!_' she screamed in her head.

_Snap!_

Sharp, intense pain racked her skull, and a wave of nausea broke her concentration, forcing her eyes closed. Swooning, she quickly placed both hands on the desk, trusting her locked elbows to hold her up. A stab of pain in her hand, and a gasp from Professor McGonagall brought her back to the present.

"What is wrong with you?" exclaimed Umbridge, who was staring at Hermione's hand. Glancing down, Hermione saw the destroyed quill she had been holding, the jagged ends of the crushed feather cutting deeply into her palm. Dark cherry-red blood welled up and smeared on the surface of the desk as the skin began to sting.

"Clearly her lack of concentration and effort in class deserves a consequence, does it not, Professor Umbridge?" Snape inquired softly, his lip curling in malice.

"Quite right, Professor Snape. Quite right," she agreed, looking on in disgust as Minerva wrapped a soft cloth around Hermione's hand. "Oh, stop coddling the girl, Minerva!" Umbridge snapped. Turning her attention back to Professor Snape, she demanded to know his whereabouts last night.

"You could have saved yourself the trouble of interrupting my class time," he replied, with a soft edge to his voice, "by asking Professor McGonagall. We spent far too many hours last night poring over the class rosters and start of term scheduling. I don't recall the exact time we finished, but it was well past midnight."

Hermione could feel McGonagall stiffen in shock at his words. '_Bet she's wondering how he pulled off _that_ little mind-reading trick,_' she thought gleefully. Glancing up at Dumbledore, she saw a look of bemused surprise pass by his expression. _'Well done, old boy,'_ she could almost hear him say in her mind.

Umbridge harrumphed, and, in bad humour, marched out of the Potions classroom, not seeming to care that Dumbledore and McGonagall weren't keeping up with her rapid pace.

"Miss Granger, please get that hand attended to," her Head of House called over her shoulder as the door closed behind them upon their exit. True to form, Professor Snape didn't say a word of thanks to her. He resumed his head down posture, rubbing slowly at his temples with those fingers....

"Psst!" called Ron, ever the master of subtlety. "Get a move on," he hissed to her. "We've got five minutes to drop all this junk off and get to the pitch!"

Hermione hung back, taking extra time to repack her kit, her second potion sample sparkling a beautiful cerulean blue. She waited for the final Ravenclaw huddle with Snape to finish, and then approached his desk with her new phial. She held it out to him.

Sensing her presence, he looked up for a brief moment, and then returned his head to his hands, ignoring her.

She mustered up her courage, and moved to stand next to his chair. "Sir, drink this."

"I'm not about to poison myself with your attempt at extra credit," he said curtly, eyes tightly closed.

"It's yours. I copied it out of the _Ars. Arcana_ last summer."

"And how, pray tell, am I to ingest it?" he enquired sarcastically, looking up.

She inserted a plastic straw and stepped around the desk to stand next to his chair. "My magic will keep it active. Drink."

He just stared at her. "Two points to Gryffindor."

Neither noticed the interested stare from the back of the room as Hermione lifted the straw to her professor's lips.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

"Two points to Gryffindor?" Professor Minerva McGonagall questioned Hermione later, voice rising in disbelief.

"I-I know that's not much," she replied primly, feelings hurt a bit by McGonagall's apparent dismissal of her feat. "But it's the first time Professor Snape has given me House points."

"First time he's given _you_ points?" McGonagall repeated incredulously. "It is the first time he's given _anyone_ points! And after your misbehaviour in his class today – what did you do?"

Glancing about to ensure their privacy in the professor's office, Hermione confided, "There was no punishment in class. I heard you and Professor Dumbledore talking with Umbridge in the hallway."

"_Professor_ Umbr... oh, never mind," said Minerva, waving her hand to dismiss the knee-jerk response to a student showing a lack of respect to a teacher. She motioned Hermione to continue.

"I caught his attention, and I thought really hard about what Professor Dumbledore said – the roster, et cetera."

At Minerva's shocked expression, she paused a moment, and then with no admonishment from her Head of House forthcoming, she picked up the tale.

"At first, I didn't think it would work, but then I felt something... strange... happen. It was as if I wasn't even there, in the classroom anymore. I was – this sounds strange – but I was in the staff room, watching you work. I know it was a made-up story, but it became _real_."

Professor McGonagall leant back in her chair, dumbstruck by Hermione's confession. After a moment, she pushed her thin wire glasses higher on her nose, and gave her student an appraising look.

"Very few people would willingly invite such a strong Legilimens into their thoughts without a great deal of mental preparation," she said, her tone and expression quite serious. "To be able to project exactly what you need shown takes a degree of familiarity with the practitioner. Your lack of food and sleep must have also contributed to the ease at which he entered your thoughts. Understand that unprepared Legilimency can be quite disconcerting and painful...." The professor looked lost in thought for a moment.

'_She knows what it felt like_,' Hermione realised. '_The changing of reality, the feeling of being completely helpless...._'

Hermione left her Head of House's office deep in thought. Much more was going on here than she had previously suspected.


	4. Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays Part 2

[Monday, Part II]

_You called me strong, you called me weak,_

_But still your secrets I will keep_

_You took for granted all the times_

_I never let you down_

_Kryptonite - Three Doors Down_

After flying practice, the three joined the queue trudging into the library. "Lucky _you_," Harry grumbled sarcastically as Ron and Hermione dropped off their books next to his on the library table before leaving the study hall for the first staff meeting of the new term.

They quickly caught up with their fellow prefects. Davies glowered at Ron's knowing smirk as two of the Slytherin House prefects, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, shouldered past the disgraced Ravenclaw and studiously ignored his presence while nodding surprisingly polite greetings to the fifth-year Ravenclaw prefects, Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil.

Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were already in the staff lounge waiting with the sixth and seventh year prefects, as were the teachers with their cups of tea, coffee, and in Professor Flitwick's cup, hot cocoa. Hermione caught a fragment of low-voiced conversation between the headmaster and Professor McGonagall: "...yes, a meeting tonight. At the usual hour," before the twelve pairs of prefects took their places in the chairs along the wall, in order of current House ranking, while Davies stood near the doorway, looking miserable. By mid-afternoon, most of the upper grades had heard the tale of Davies' disaster in Snape's class.

Hermione was delighted to see that she and Ron were seated in the second position, while Hufflepuff had moved into third. The Ravenclaw prefects took the last place set of seats without a word.

There was a last-minute flurry as the Head Boy and Girl passed out sheets of parchment and refilled cups with hot water or coffee before joining the teachers at the table. Dolores Umbridge scowled at the students, clearly not pleased to see them invited, tradition at the start of term or not.

The meeting was quickly called to order and, as usual, Professor Dumbledore began with the House reports from the Head Students, Terrence Higgs and Minuet Lagane. A chuckle went around the table, and Minerva's lips thinned even more, as Terrence reported that Fred and George Weasley had been spotted in the castle's entryway with pails of goo moments before the Gryffindor hourglass mysteriously obtained a blockage, preventing the rubies from dropping as House points were deducted throughout the day.

Beside her, Hermione could feel Ron's cheeks flame in embarrassment.

Dabbing at his eyes with the corners of a fine linen handkerchief, Professor Flitwick wiped away tears of merriment, stating proudly that, however complicated the charms became in the castle, the Weasley twins could surely find a simple way around them. Professor McGonagall sighed, shaking her head. Clearly, she did not share her colleague's pride in the boys' mischievous ways.

When it came to her turn to address the staff, Hermione stood. "I was wondering if it might not be a good idea, given current events," she shot a glance at Umbridge, who was studiously ignoring her, "if there was a way to train us, the prefects, in basic first aid spells and techniques, just in case something were to happen," she ventured.

Professor McGonagall started to speak, but the school matron cut in sharply. "I think that is a very bad idea, indeed!" Her voice was raised; colour infused her cheeks. She stared pointedly at the cloth wrapped around Hermione's hand as if to say that the child couldn't even heal herself, let alone anyone else.

"But surely, Madam Pomfrey, we can consider—" Minerva tried again.

"Having students running around, acting as trained medical assistance is foolhardy, Albus, and you know it," she continued, directing her argument to Dumbledore and ignoring Professor McGonagall's call to reason.

"I am a fully-trained, capable mediwitch. I see no circumstance arising where I could not fulfil my duties and would be in need of the assistance of children."

There was an uncomfortable silence, as Madam Pomfrey continued to breathe raggedly and Hermione remained on her feet. Sensing that no one was willing to champion her proposal, Hermione slowly sat down, a frown marring her usually serious expression.

"Now, if there is nothing further to report from the Houses, I believe the students may be dismissed. I understand there are upcoming tests for which one might study," Dumbledore said gently, attempting to break the tension by teasing a few of the more serious students present.

Hermione felt her back stiffen painfully as she tensed, thinking about how much was left to prepare for the O.W.L.s.

Obediently, the prefects and Head Students rose, quietly pushing chairs back into place and gathering their notes in preparation for their own meeting in the library during study hall.

"Hem-hem!"

Everyone froze in place, heads turning to the lumpish woman in the bright yellow cardigan and matching fuzzy skirt.

"You wish to add something, Dolores?" Albus asked, kindly.

Those were the last words Hermione heard spoken by Albus Dumbledore that afternoon, for Dolores Umbridge was fully in her element. Small half-glasses teetering precariously near the end of her nose, she peered intently into the faces of each staff member present while ignoring the prefects she had detained.

The reason for the reading glasses became clear as she produced a thick tome from her quilted satchel and lovingly caressed the leather cover before opening and reciting a passage in her high voice.

"If you are entrusted with safeguarding our greatest resource—" She glanced from the page to her captive audience. "—magical children—you are expected to report potentially significant, factual information that comes to your attention and that raises potential concerns about your fellow educators.

Hence Educational Decree Twelve, 'Accountability to the Future', states that Staff are encouraged to report any information that raises doubts as to whether another colleague's continued eligibility to instruct tomorrow's legacy is clearly consistent with the Ministry's security policies."

Umbridge paused, staring directly at Hagrid, who was still trying to find a comfortable seat on his enlarged wooden chair near the table.

Hermione felt an icy blade of fear slice through the pit of her stomach. Surely the teachers couldn't be expected to spy on one another for the amusement of the Ministry, could they? She glanced around the table. Professor Flitwick's dark eyes glittered as he stole a quick look toward Professor Snape. Minerva McGonagall looked unsettled, her face pale. Dumbledore wore his usual gentle smile, as if he were taking part in a Sunday tea social. Professor Snape maintained a respectful silence, his expression giving no clue as to his thoughts, and Madam Pomfrey appeared troubled, as if she wasn't quite certain of what she was hearing from Umbridge.

When Hagrid had stopped fidgeting, Umbridge continued.

"Your vigilance is the best single defence in protecting the children. Apathy, disbelief, or fear of what might happen if we become involved sometimes causes us to look away rather than confront troublesome behaviour. But looking the other way from improper conduct or security issues can pose a risk to a colleague's well-being as well as to Hogwarts and to the general peace established by the Ministry of Magic. There are _No Good Excuses_ for failing to fulfil your reporting responsibility."

She pinned each person with her stare once more. "Understanding your professional obligations will help you overcome the natural and understandable hesitation to report potentially adverse information about a valued colleague who may also be a friend. All reports will be treated with the utmost confidentiality and discretion. If you so desire, you need not be identified as the source of the information. Ministry of Magic personnel have extensive experience in handling such reports in a professional manner that protects your interests. After all, you are only trying to help them," she simpered.

Closing the book, she finally addressed the students in the room. "As representatives of the Houses, you must be held accountable to the same standards of vigilance as the instructors, or I may be forced to find _another way_ to ensure student safety."

Replacing the tome in her satchel, she smiled sweetly at them all, with about as much warmth as a picnic at the polar icecap.

"Tha—that will be all," Professor McGonagall stuttered slightly, addressing the students. There was no response this time from Umbridge, so once again they gathered their things and filed out of the staff room. As she turned to close the door, Hermione saw a troubled look pass between Professor Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey. The diminutive Charms professor nodded slightly, and Hermione saw Pomfrey return the gesture.

Hermione felt a tingle of magical energy as the closed door was sealed from within the room. Clearly, _Children's Hour_ was at its end.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Pale beams of sunlight painted the flagstone path as the sun moved lower in the sky. Hunching slightly under the weight of the book bag and the heavier burden of worry, Hermione joined the throng of students hurrying along the stone causeway toward the castle's main floor. She was one among many, following the echoing, boisterous voices in the hallways leading to the Great Hall.

"Granger! Over here!"

Looking up, she saw a flock of prefects lining up the younger students and casting disgruntled looks her way—even Ron did not seem happy to see her.

"Don't mind them," Hannah Abbott said, gesturing Hermione to her side. "I looked everywhere, where were you?"

"Over by the lake—sketching. What's happened?" Hermione asked, completely at a loss as to what she could have done to irritate her fellow fifth-year prefects.

"Well, you'll recall how _enthused_ Madam Pomfrey was for us to help?" At Hermione's nod, Hannah continued. "She's found a way to make use of us, per your request." The sarcasm dripping from Hannah's words was belied by her genuine grimace of dark amusement. Further explanation was drowned out by Ron's bellow of "Gryffindor first-years, over here!" followed by the other Houses also corralling and lining up the new crop of students, with hands spread outward.

"You don't mean..." Hermione said slowly, taking it all in.

"Yes, hand checks of the younger students are now our _daily_ responsibility, ensuring we'll always be the last ones in for dinner and study hall."

"Ugh. I am _so_ sorry! Why did I think she'd ever take my idea seriously?" Hermione bemoaned as she crossed over to help Ron.

"I've got the firsties, you take the older runts," Ron ordered. "And the chicken had better still be hot when I get in there," he added, glancing over his shoulder at the House tables rapidly filling with students.

Sighing and putting on a brave face, Hermione turned to face the diminishing crowd passing through the main hallway. "Second-years, to me!" Ignoring the gibes of passing classmates, Hermione moved down the line of fresh-faced youngsters, inspecting each pair of outstretched hands for proper cleanliness.

"What's going on?" Ginny appeared at her side, munching on a drumstick.

"Madam Pomfrey's being a vile cow," Hermione muttered quietly to her friend. "This is punishment for my pushing the medical training programme in our rotation at the staff meeting," she explained. "So now we're relegated to 'hands inspection.'

"A total cow," Ginny agreed loyally.

"Ack! Professor McGonagall's coming this way—go!" Hermione warned. Walking around with food was usually good for a point or two loss if the teachers saw it. With a flash of red hair, Ginny disappeared back into the thinning crowd. A pair of dirt-smudged hands caught her attention. "You need to go wash those again—with soap and hot water this time!" she commanded.

"But Bartles is very clean, see?" The boy reached into his robes to produce a large green toad.

Unconsciously mimicking her Potions professor, Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her good hand as if in pain. "Go. Wash. Them. _Now_." She opened her eyes and resumed inspection. Her announcement of, "Anyone else who's been handling their toad..." was met with laughter from the boys in line. "Oh, honestly!" she snapped, exasperated. An abrupt silence made her whirl around. Snape was standing behind her.

"Not so easy, is it?" he commented softly, his voice pitched for her ears alone.

Catching herself mid-smile, she quickly adopted a stern expression and turned back to face her hungry captives who were now perfectly behaved under the watchful eye of the Head of Slytherin. His answering snort told her he'd seen her reaction. She quickly processed the remaining students into the Great Hall, fully expecting Snape to leave. But no—he was behind her still.

"Hands," he demanded.

"Er, excuse me, Professor?" Of the many things she could imagine him needing to say to her today, that was not even in the top two hundred.

"Now," he added unhelpfully.

'_He can't be serious... he's making __**me**__ submit to a hand check, like a child?_' With an expression of disbelief she extended her hands, palms down, toward her teacher.

She felt naked under Snape's stare, standing in the now nearly deserted hallway. She shivered under the intensity of his scrutiny, his head bowed and cocked slightly to the side as if she were a specimen for dissection. At least this time the lights were on full.

She kept her gaze planted firmly straight ahead, committing the subtle pattern etched on his robe buttons to memory. This was a test, it had to be. He needn't worry. She would keep his secrets. She could take the hint from his non-reaction in Potions class today—she was just a child, and last night never happened.

Her thoughts were interrupted by his grasping of her bandaged hand. His touch was ice cold but gentle. Keeping her breathing quiet and even, she chanced a glance up to his face. His eyes were closed, mouth twisted in pain as he turned her wrist to expose the blood-dotted handkerchief covering her cut palm.

"Sir... I—" Whatever she had been about to say was choked off by a spastic tightening of his hand around her injured one, bringing a sharp stab of pain where the quill shards had lacerated her skin. Breathing hard, he brought up his wand and pressed its length into her palm, sandwiching her small hand firmly between his own, eyelids still screwed shut in concentration. Her palm tingled and the skin started to itch unbearably where it touched his wand. Before she could form a protest, it was over. Her hand dropped to her side, and he stepped backward, placing a modest distance between teacher and student. "You—you're not supposed to use magic...."

"I pay my debts, Miss Granger," he said solemnly before sweeping past her into the Great Hall.

Now alone, Hermione slowly unwrapped the handkerchief from her hand. A faint pink line across her palm of tender new tissue was all that remained.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

A/N: Each day ends at midnight—the Witching Hour—but I am breaking the days into smaller chapters because this is very much a work in progress. Monday will end up being told in three parts, possibly four if Severus Snape hijacks the narrative again. He's been lurking about lately, muttering.


	5. Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays Part 3

A/N: I am currently in Dallas, TX attending the Portus HP convention. Please forgive the brevity of this transitional chapter - it needs to happen so that the final events of Monday night can unfold. Many thanks to Annie Talbot for the lightning quick beta, this chapter's summary and the use of her laptop. (The hotel is not exactly internet-friendly....) Enjoy, and I look forward to posting some of the highlights of the convention in our OWL Live Journal, which can be found at .com/owl_tauri/

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Dinner at Hogwarts was a raucous affair. A sea of black robes surged around the four long student tables as their inhabitants table-hopped. The 'SlytherGryffleClaw' study club took over the last third of the Hufflepuff table, forcing some of the younger Hufflepuffs to find seats elsewhere. Ravenclaw Patel joined her twin at the Gryffindor table.

"You! Where are you supposed to be?" Umbridge commanded, cornering a wayward Hufflepuff. "Go back to your table!"

"Good luck with _that_," Ron whispered to Harry, who smirked. As outside activities took precedence, more and more of the school discipline had lapsed. McGonagall, who had never really taken a hands-on approach with Gryffindor House, now seemed impossibly busy between teaching, Head of House duties, being deputy headmistress, and working for the Order.

Dumbledore didn't see much around him anymore, or no longer cared. Hermione knew that his relationship with Harry was suffering tremendously through his inattention.

The only table that remained relatively intact by House was Slytherin. "They think they're too good to mingle with anyone else," sniffed Dean.

"Ron, may I borrow your Astronomy book?" Hermione asked tensely. They had that class tomorrow and there was no way to replace her missing textbooks in time to cover the assignment.

"Sure, suit yourself." Ron kicked his book bag under the table toward Hermione.

She snatched the book out of the well-worn carrier and immediately began to devour the week's assignments, making frantic notes on parchment while trying to tune out Lavender's high-pitched giggles at Ron's every inanity.

"Oh, Ron—that's so _funny!_"

Hermione's teeth clenched at the screeching as Lavender was off into another gale of laughter. Sighing, Hermione looked up long enough to spear a piece of roasted chicken and gingerly take a few bites. _This will never work. Maybe Ron and Harry will let me use their books tonight...._ Hermione felt a brief twinge of guilt at depriving the boys of valuable study time, until a particularly loud exclamation from Lavender drew her attention. Ron had taken his Potions notes, folded them into the shape of a bird, and sent them sailing over the table, only to wince as they landed in the gravy bowl over at Slytherin.

Grinning malevolently, Draco quickly pulled out his wand and reduced the sodden mess to a pile of ashes.

"Plonker," Ron grumbled. Lavender let out another squeal that set Hermione's teeth on edge as Ron then made his pumpkin juice dance across the table, splashing Neville in the process.

_'And he's a prefect.'_ Hermione shook her head sadly.

The noise died down as Professor McGonagall approached the table. "Is it too much to expect my House to comport themselves with dignity in public?" she asked, exasperated. "Miss Brown, I could hear you from the High Table. Mr Longbottom, please go change your shirt after dinner. Mr Weasley—I expect a better example of proper behaviour from you. I expect you all to finish your meal in silence and report to study hall within the hour," she announced, staring disapprovingly at the heaping pile of bones on Ron's plate, complete with a lop sided halo of gravy spilling onto the table linen.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," everyone answered meekly, returning their attention to the now stone-cold food on their plates.

"Miss Granger," she said more quietly, noting the pristine plate soiled only by a forlorn piece of chicken. "Why are you not eating? Surely you must be hungry, even after the potion this afternoon."

"I—I'm sorry, Professor. I just have so much work to do—"

"Going without meals is not acceptable, Miss Granger. Moreover, I believe you will have plenty of time to study this evening. That's why they call it 'study hall'," she snapped, losing patience.

Hermione felt a cool shadow fall across her as Professor Snape glided to a stop beside Professor McGonagall. "I believe you owe my House a bowl of gravy, Minerva," he stated, his lip curving slightly in sarcastic amusement as he set down the ashy remnants of Draco's handiwork next to Ron's plate.

"There is a meeting tonight 'at the hour,'" McGonagall told Snape quietly, after a brief glance toward the High Table. He simply nodded, and continued on to the High Table, stepping gracefully onto the raised dais, and taking his seat at Professor Dumbledore's right hand.

"Just—just eat something, Miss Granger. The books will take care of themselves," McGonagall muttered, moving off to join her colleagues at the front of the room.

Umbridge was watching the teachers with hawk-like interest as they ate, making sure she was within earshot of Dumbledore's conversation with McGonagall and Snape.

"Umbridge is all over them," Ron observed quietly to Hermione and Harry, who looked furious, his eyes narrowing and skin taking on an angry ruddy flush.

"It's not fair!" Harry hissed to Ron and Hermione. "How can I do anything to prepare when they keep shutting me out of things?"

"Maybe it's a teachers' meeting?" Hermione ventured, unnerved by Harry's rising anger.

"At midnight? Not bloody likely!" Ron retorted.

"Midnight? How do you know the meeting's at midnight?" Hermione questioned.

"Because it's at 'the hour.' The Witching Hour—midnight," he explained slowly, as if to a child.

"Well, there's no need to be that way about it. I'd never heard the term before, _Ronald_," Hermione replied, hurt at the patronising tone.

"Yeah, well, most people here know these things," was his dismissive reply.

Hermione met Harry's eyes, expecting to see puzzlement over the phrase, too, but only saw belligerence toward the adults he saw as amassed against him. It was no use discussing Muggle-meets-wizarding culture right now. As was all too common lately, all Harry was interested in was fighting, no matter if it was with his relatives, the Ministry, teachers, or even his mates. Only Ron seemed to have partial immunity to Harry's volatile moods. She needed to have a friend to confide in, especially now; as hard as it was, she would have to ask him for favours she had never thought she would. She felt left out and more alone than ever.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Firelight danced across the dark walls and soft burgundy armchair as Hermione pored over the book, pausing only to recast a soft Lumos to illuminate the astronomical tables and hand drawn charts before her.

The planets and forecast lines blurred as tears welled. Blinking rapidly, she banished this sign of weakness and stared into the hypnotic flames as the wood crackled and an occasional spark popped. Lost in thought, she missed the tell-tale scent of lavender dusting powder and sage leaves that announced the presence of her Head of House.

Late in the evenings, it was Professor McGonagall's habit to pop into the Gryffindor common room before retiring to shoo children upstairs to bed. It was also her moment to have a quiet word with Hermione and admonish her for studying so late, so it should not have been a complete surprise to feel a soft touch to her shoulder. Hermione jumped anyway, unnerved by her teacher's sudden appearance at her side. Sighing, Hermione closed the text book, and prepared to make her apologies.

"I know, I know, Miss Granger," McGonagall said wearily. "It's time to put that aside and go to bed."

"Yes, Professor."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a quick word with Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said, slowly climbing the stairs leading to the boys' dormitories.

Taking a moment under the light from her fading Lumos spell, Hermione quickly read over her notes, and carefully flipped through the rest of the chapter in the Astronomy book, before reluctantly setting the book aside.

A flurry of movement drew her attention to the stairs. McGonagall was descending much faster than was prudent, especially for one of her advanced years in the middle of the night.

"They're gone!" she exclaimed, crossing over to the fireplace to rejoin Hermione.


	6. Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays Part 4

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a quick word with Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said, slowly climbing the stairs leading to the boys' dormitories.

Taking a moment under the light from her fading Lumos spell Hermione quickly read over her notes, and carefully flipped through the rest of the chapter in the Astronomy book, before reluctantly setting the book aside.

A flurry of movement drew her attention to the stairs. McGonagall was descending much faster than was prudent, especially for one of her advancing years in the middle of the night.

"They're gone!" she exclaimed, crossing over to the fireplace to rejoin Hermione.

Hermione didn't need to ask who 'they' were. Clearly Ron and Harry had slipped out for a bit of adventure, most likely creeping right past her under Harry's Invisibility Cloak while she had been using their books to study.

"I didn't see them leave," Hermione answered her teacher's unspoken question, the hurt at being ditched evident in her voice.

"Foolish boys!" McGonagall exclaimed softly, mindful of the rest of her sleeping charges upstairs. Sighing, the elderly witch settled onto the other easy chair, clearly prepared to await the return of her wayward Gryffindors. "You might as well go up to bed, Miss Gr – _is that blood?_" Professor McGonagall asked, leaning forward, suddenly very alert.

Following her gaze, Hermione realised the stickiness she'd been absent mindedly wiping on her skirt was glopped on her blouse front, too, and had a dark red colour. "Ahhhgh, Ron!"

"No, Professor. It's ..." she brought a bit of it to her nose, "Strawberry preserves." _I'm only borrowing Harry's books from now on..._

"Surely, Mr Weasley would not dare to leave your book in such condition – "

_Crack_!

A house-elf appeared directly in front of Professor McGonagall, draped in the monogrammed tea towel favoured by the Hogwarts kitchen elves. The eyes were as large as saucers, the firelight reflecting madly, as they rolled in two different directions at once while the elf simultaneously yanked on one over-sized ear.

"What is the meaning of this?" McGonagall demanded. Hermione knew that, Dobby's unsanctioned forays aside, house-elves were supposed to be neither seen nor heard outside of their work areas. In fact, she'd lay odds that she hadn't been the only second-year not to realise who cleaned the dorms and cooked the meals at the school.

Hermione could see that the elf was terrified, he let out a squeak and his hand trembled as he handed the professor a delicate pink envelope. Immediately, the poor creature was gone, the noise of panicked Apparation bound to wake some of the lighter sleepers upstairs Hermione thought ruefully. The sickly sweet scent of roses assaulted her as Professor McGonagall removed the sheet of paper from its envelope. There was no doubt from whom the missive came; Umbridge's sense of personal style was utterly predictable.

Hermione leant forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the letter's contents. She watched as McGonagall held the sheet of paper up at eye level, too engrossed to bother casting a Lumos, but relying upon the dying flames in the fireplace to illuminate the page. A quick exclamation, and she was on her feet, paper fluttering to the floor.

"What is it, Professor?" Hermione asked, a feeling of dread sending icy tendrils over her skin. Despite the warmth from the hearth, she shivered.

Quickly, McGonagall crossed to the stone fireplace and drew her wand, gripping it tightly in one hand while placing the other against the smooth stone wall. She remained that way, standing silently, palm splayed against the wall until a translucent white haze emerged from the stone, enveloping her for a moment before moving into the room and taking the form of Sir Nicholas. "You Summoned me, Minerva?"

Hermione was struck by the seriousness in his tone. Her previous experiences with the Gryffindor House ghost were always marked by the spirit's irrepressible merriment and humour. He wasn't smiling this time, in fact he was actually manifesting at eye level, as though his body were solid, and standing upon the same floor as Professor McGonagall, the flames from the fireplace flickering through him eerily.

"Young masters Potter and Weasley are loose tonight in the castle," she said rather formally. "They must be found and escorted back. Tell the others, hurry!" Sir Nicholas nodded once, causing a slight wobble of his head reminding Hermione of the failed decapitation that led to Sir Nicholas's present state. Without a word, he stepped into the fire, and then beyond as his form merged with and passed through the stone wall.

Turning back to Hermione, she explained, "Umbridge has called an emergency meeting of the staff. Members of the Ministry will be here momentarily. That woman has gone too far!" she exclaimed loudly, followed by a wince and quick glance toward the dormatory staircases. Lowering her voice, she continued. "I am entrusting you with the task of finding the boys. The ghosts will help you look for them." She retrieved the note, and crumpled it in her fist. "Something very wrong is afoot in the castle tonight – I can feel it." She shuddered and drew her robes tighter. "Find them, Miss Granger, and _quickly_."

Hermione watched as her teacher whirled, and headed for the common room door, the remains of the note still clenched tightly in her hand.

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

Professor McGonagall's alarm was infectious. Hermione fairly flew down the hallway from the tower before abruptly coming to a standstill. "Idiot!" she cursed herself for a fool. Pivoting, she raced back through the bolthole, and up the dormitory stairs to the fifth-year boys' room. Pausing to catch her breath, she cautiously pushed on the door as the torchlight filled in behind her, framing her in a brilliant halo. Blind against the inky darkness, she crept in. As her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, she could make out the shrouded beds, and the bed stand where Harry kept the magical map of the castle and grounds. Dean's horrific snoring seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. Passing by a bed with half-opened curtains, Hermione could hear Longbottom's whimpers as he thrashed in the throes of a bad dream. Instinctively, she approached his bed and gently laid her hand against his forehead. Leaning in, she could make out dark hair plastered against his ghostly pale skin. Her hand came away wet with perspiration. He writhed against the too warm cocoon of blankets, his mumbled pleas lost to Dean's unrelenting snores. Cupping his rounded cheek in her cool palm, she bent close to his ear. "Neville, wake up. Get your wand out, something's happening...."

ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo

The two Gryffindors walked briskly toward the Great Hall, their footsteps muffled by Neville's thick woollen socks and her fluffy white kitty slippers. Stopping under a wall torch's subdued radiance, she checked the map again. "They've definitely split up," she confirmed. The dot labelled R Weasley was ascending quickly toward the third floor. "He's got to be heading for the kitchens."

"I've got it," Neville said with determination. Hermione watched him retreat until he disappeared into the corridor's gloomy shadows. Now, about Harry.... According to the map, Harry was pacing from the headmaster's gargoyle to the end of the hall and back. She watched his dot complete another loping figure eight in the hallway below Headmaster Dumbledore's office. He was clearly waiting for something – oh! Hermione recalled the late night meeting McGonagall let slip in front of them at dinner. Apparently Harry's plan was to keep an eye on Dumbledore and follow him. Very clever. Or very stupid, depending upon how one considered Albus Dumbledore. While the _Daily Prophet_ had been skewering the illustrious Headmaster of Hogwarts, insinuating that he was losing his wits, Hermione knew for a fact that the headmaster was in full possession of his faculties. Well, barmy speeches at the Feast aside. Even with the Invisibility Cloak and darkened corridors, it would probably be a fool's errand to stalk Dumbledore, especially if McGonagall and Snape were meeting him in his office.

With a sigh, Hermione trudged on, rounding the next turn and heading toward the large stone staircase which led to the headmaster's office. Reaching the gargoyle, she pulled out the map again under the faint torchlight to pinpoint her wayward friend's position. Harry had vanished from the corridor, and his dot was moving very fast toward Gryffindor tower. He seemed to be running. A few seconds too late, she saw a new dot that was lying in wait on the other side of the gargoyle. She touched her wand tip to the map. "Mischief managed."

At the sound of her voice, a man stepped from behind the statue. Even knowing someone was there, Hermione heard herself give a slight _yip_ in surprise. He was very tall with dark auburn hair, a few stands catching the torchlight and glinting dim copper. His robes were dirt brown, and accented with black – the common attire of Magical Law Enforcement. Light suddenly blazed as he held his wand high, dwarfing her pitiful "_Lumos_". She knew she must look a sight – rumbled uniform skirt, blouse smeared with red preserves, and the fluffy white Hello Kitty slippers from her Auntie Mary.

"Why are you out and about, missy?" he asked crisply, eyeing her state of wardrobe malfeasance with disapproval.

"I'm a prefect," Hermione replied, drawing herself stiffly to her full height. "Who are you?" she asked, edging back a half step.

"Constable Tenpenny, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You don't look like a prefect. Where's the headmaster or his deputy, or any responsible adult, for that matter?" he demanded. "I have a writ for immediate removal from my superior."

The words just came from nowhere, she honestly had not planned on channelling her Potions professor, but they slipped out. "Oh, then by all means, please don't let me keep you here." She widened her eyes, gazing up at him with mock worry.

To his credit, it only took him a moment to realise how he'd phrased it. "No-no, not for _my_ removal, you silly chit, a student's!"

"They've gone into a meeting," she muttered, reeling from the impact of his admission... he was here to take someone away. Could that madwoman, Sarah, have followed through on her threat of a letter to the Ministry?

"At this hour? Take me to them," he ordered.

"I don't know where they are," she answered truthfully, while feeling sick to her stomach.

Well, I can certainly see that the paper's got the right of it," he scoffed, clearly put out by the absence of any useful information. "Well, then, since you're a," a glanced down again at her footwear, "_prefect_, can't you open that? He waved his wand indicating the spiral staircase.

"Oh, no," she replied as sweetly as she could, under the circumstances. "I'm afraid the gargoyle will only allow a staff member or prefect up the stairs. I can leave it on his desk, if you'd like," she offered, trying not to seem too interested. "And someone could come back in the morning, perhaps? I don't know how many hours _this_ meeting will last."

She watched in satisfaction as he blanched at the thought of hanging around in this chilly hallway for hours to deliver the writ.

As if on cue, the temperature in the drafty corridor seemed to drop another ten degrees, making him even more anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot in aggravation. Hermione kept her expression innocent. Finally, he reached a decision.

"Fine, can you give this to your Headmaster?" he asked, reluctantly holding out the scroll.

"It would be my pleasure," Hermione assured the man, accepting the rolled parchment, and turning slowly toward the gargoyle. Under the watchful eyes of the man, she gingerly set foot upon the first step, and with the pretext of a coughing fit, she leant over, close to the gargoyle and whispered the week's password, "jellybabies". Stone ground against stone as the ancient guardian allowed the spiral staircase to turn like a giant corkscrew, delivering her to the top landing. Not bothering to glance at the man below, she tapped her wand tip against the door and breathed a sigh of relief when the lock clicked and the door swung ajar.

Before the man had the bright idea of trying to follow her up the stairs, she moved just inside the doorway and pushed the heavy oaken door shut. She leant against the door, quieting her breath and allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She had been in Dumbledore's office before, but never during the night. The portraits were asleep, or their occupants absent for the moment, allowing her a few moments to plan. Despite the heavy drapes over arched windows, the room was suffused in a gentle silvery glow that emanated from the array of metal and glass instruments and curiosities lining the shelves behind the massive desk. From his cage on the next level up, Fawkes trilled a greeting to her. There were no other sounds to disturb the stillness.

Hermione walked to the desk, and after re-lighting her wand with a subdued Lumos, she spread out the map and bent close to search for the agent. She watched his dot stand at the stairway for another moment and then move away toward the entrance hall. She waited until his dot was on the grounds and then passed through the gates, fading from the map. Only then did she dare to examine the scroll. It was addressed to Headmaster Dumbledore in a sloppy hand, the words were smudged, and blotches of ink littered the sheet. Nor was the seal properly applied. The official seal of the Ministry's Magical Law Enforcement department had been hastily added, and its red wax blob was peeling away from the unevenly rolled parchment. Hermione stared at the dark red seal, almost willing it to give up its hold on the paper below it. This was it. There was no going back if she opened the scroll. If she just turned around now, and returned to her bed, no one would be the wiser. Brightening the light around her, she picked up the scroll and tried to peer into its end to see a few lines of rolled script. It was no use. Closing her eyes for a moment, she made one last attempt to be virtuous and persuade herself to leave it be. She failed. Moving her wand over the paper, she could not detect any spells or enchantments, which would make sense if this, indeed, was a rushed missive in the middle of the night issued by a unhappy clerk who had probably been roused from bed for this.

Again, she paused. A week ago, the thought of reading someone else's message, let alone a Ministry scroll for the Headmaster, would never have entered her mind. But things had changed. Still she hesitated, her hand needing only exert the slightest force to crack the wax and reveal the scroll's contents. No, she decided. No matter what had happened, she was still the same person, and a Gryffindor.

Hermione placed the scroll on Dumbledore's immense desk and turned away, resigned to what would happen and trusting in her teachers to provide the constancy her orderly mind craved.

Two steps from the door, and she felt the staircase grind to life again, the vibration causing the door knob to rattle. Backing away and looking around frantically, Hermione sought a hiding place. Fawkes trilled again, sensing her agitation. Indistinguishable voices drew nearer; they were almost to the door now. There was no time to flee up the stairs past Fawkes and hide under one of the small library tables. "_Nox_!" Instinctively snatching back the scroll, she crossed the room in a rush and dove behind the heavy brocade curtain directly behind Dumbledore's chair. In her mind's eye, her hiding place resembled the bulge a rat made while slowly being digested by a snake, but there was no time to rethink it. The voices became louder when the door opened, admitting what sounded like an endless line of people into the office. Were her shoes sticking out from under the hem? She felt completely exposed. _Please-please-please_, she prayed feverently, _don't look this way!_ There would be no explaining this. Ron once told her that Dumbledore had seen him and Harry through the Invisibility Cloak. What chance did she have behind a curtain? Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione saw that the window sills were much deeper than she'd remembered. Tucking the scroll and wand in her pocket, she placed both hands on the edge of the sill and began a slow and steady effort to pull herself up backward and onto the window sill, hoping that the curtain would not betray the movement. _Ah, that's better_, she thought in relief. The sills were more like window seats in their depth. There was enough room for her to pull her legs in and sit cross legged on the wooden edge, her back pressed firmly against the multi-paned glass. The curtain settled back against the wall, completely flat once more. As long as the rain continued, the moonlight would probably not be bright enough to outline her against the fabric and provide a tell-tale silhouette. Hermione shivered from the cold leeching through the thin glass into her back.

"If you'd paid more attention to discipline than to winning Quidditch games, you might actually know what's been happening in this school!"

It took Hermione a moment to connect that venomous comment with Professor Vector, whom she had never heard speak in anything but a civil, quiet manner.

"How dare you!" McGonagall's tone was angrier than Hermione had ever heard.

"I would expect that, coming from the administration that allowed this situation to happen in the first place!" Umbridge's girly voice actually squeaked, so intent was she to get a word in edgewise over the babble of raised voices.

"That is quite enough!" Dumbledore shouted over the din. If we may please take our seats, perhaps we can dispense with this unpleasantness before daybreak?"

There was a subdued muttering, and scraping of shoes across the wooden floor of the second level as a number of people pulled out chairs and took seats at the small library tables. Fawkes sang for a moment, a clear note that seemed to calm the tension for a moment, until Umbridge decided it was time to take control of the meeting.

"That's close enough!" she barked to an unseen victim. "You can just sit there until the Aurors arrive."

Hermione's gasp was swallowed by the heavy curtain that separated her from the room; otherwise it would have echoed in the dead silence that fell at the hateful woman's words. Aurors? Why would Aurors be sent for in the middle of the night?

Hermione heard Hagrid's low voice mumble in response, but couldn't make out the words.

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of excuses for them, too. It just won't do you any good!" Umbridge snapped.

"Oh, really, Dolores! This really has stretched all limits of credibility!" Minerva's voice held genuine anger, and perhaps... a note of fear?

"Why on Earth would you expect Aurors to be needed?" Dumbledore enquired calmly.

"As if you didn't know, Dumbledore," she shot back.

"Enlighten me, Professor Umbridge," he replied, not phrasing it as a request.

"Why, to arrest Severus Snape."


End file.
